rivet by rivet
by somethingpithy
Summary: Bucky Barnes and Claire Temple (of Daredevil, Luke Cage, Marvel's Defenders, etc.), as it turns out, are soulmates. Claire isn't enthused about this turn of events, and Bucky's ability to manage relationships is somewhat in question. This is somewhat complicated by past and present relationships. Let's see what happens! Appearances by Steve Rogers, Misty Knight, & more!
1. it's wartime every time

I should disclaim that I have about fifty-seven Claire Temple ships, including Luke Cage, Matt Murdock, Misty Knight, and Jessica Jones. I actually really want to work on a Luke/Claire fic (and a JJ/Claire fic, and a MK/Claire fic), but we'll get there. For now, shadukiam has me on kind of a Bucky tip, and Luke Cage has me on a big ole Claire tip, so here we are.

Story title from "Flat of the Blade" by Massive Attack

Chapter title from "Small Time Shot Away" by Massive Attack

* * *

" _Get down!_ "

It wasn't until Claire was back at her mother's place, in her room, still shaking slightly from the impact of the explosions, that she looked down at the side of her upper thigh, almost her hip, and saw the same words written there in cursive that looked like it had been forced to be neat at gunpoint.

It had been there, of course, for as long as she could remember, and the words had once been a source of curiosity to her, the context of that statement a mystery. Would they meet at the gym? Playing ball? A club, where he was singing along to some James Brown remix?

That early on, Claire never imagined the world would explode into super-powered human-slash-malicious alien warfare on top of the crime and poverty that already burdened it. This seemed especially true i

n New York, particularly Manhattan, which had seen more than its fair share of time as the staging ground for these battles.

She probably should have guessed by now that there'd be some threat involved with those words, but as time had gone on, Claire hadn't spent as much time thinking about her soulmate – in fact, she barely thought about it at all. In a world so connected, it seemed like one was at once more and less likely than ever to meet the author of the words on their skin.

And then there were the actual words. Given her former job and still technically current occupation, she'd never taken well to men barking orders at her, particularly when she already had her hands full, though experience had taught her that taking cues like "get down" was usually more a matter of survival than compliance.

Still, though.

She didn't like his style, his demeanor. He'd been cold-eyed, stiff; military, obviously, but more, like some kind of automaton. And now, in the relative safety of her bedroom, she remembered her retort and the curl of her lip that had gone with it:

"Give me a goddamn minute!"

To be fair, she'd been in the middle of finishing up a stitch, and it was only luck that had let her tie the knot before he'd practically tackled her to the ground – which, given his metal arm and hard-trained physique (did all of these super-humans get some kind of group discount at Crossfit or something?), ended with more than a little bruising and the soreness that she was dealing with now.

Really, it wasn't that likely that it was even him. It hadn't been the first time she'd heard those words – though granted, it had been the first time that they'd been someone's first words to her. Even so, with the way things were going, it probably wouldn't be the last.

Wetting her lips, she took a breath, looking out the window, brushing her hair away from her face with fingers that shook slightly. But just slightly.

* * *

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	2. where the moon meets the dew

There'll be some real live dialogue in the next chapter, promise. ;) Chapter title from "Strangers" by Portishead.

* * *

Bucky was aware of who she was from the second she'd spoken to him.

He hadn't expected it, obviously – she was just a girl who was about to get barbecued or shot or both, and even in the days before his charm had rusted over, social niceties had taken a backseat to making sure everyone survived a firefight.

He hadn't even been really looking at her when he'd said the words, but when she replied, his gaze snapped toward her and he'd leapt for her, shielding her body with his own.  
There'd been a moment, maybe, he thought, after the explosion had died down, when he'd looked at her, maybe seen something there. But almost immediately, she'd shoved him off of her, pushing hard at his chest before he'd gotten up, reaching down to offer her a hand.

A hand she'd ignored.

He knew he didn't need much help being a creep these days, but it was especially hard not to stare at her. This was his soulmate? He'd definitely heard the words right, and they'd been written across his hip in a small, neat, fluid script that was just round enough to be appealing, but narrow enough not to look cutesy or bubbly.

Not that he'd spent a lot of time thinking about it or anything.

When he was younger, he'd been kind of shocked by it. A dame who talked like that couldn't be any kind of lady, he'd thought as a kid, but that'd secretly kind of appealed to him (even though his ma definitely wouldn't have approved). Once he'd grown up, he'd wondered what exact thing he'd say or do to prompt that response – until he'd become the Winter Soldier. After that, he hadn't thought about it at all.

HYDRA had tried to remove it. A soulmate created a possible variable in an asset's mental or emotional state that couldn't be predicted, and that was definitely a problem. But soul marks couldn't be removed, despite their best efforts, and beyond that, Bucky never met her, so it was a non-issue.

Until today.

There'd been no time, though, to get to know her, or point it out, or address it at all, really. In the chaos that had followed the explosions, he'd kept eyes on her for as long as he could, but she'd gone off to treat people who were injured, do triage – everything about her screamed "field nurse" – and there'd been fighting. Much more fighting.

He didn't know her name, or where she lived, or who she was. Yet.

But she was in New York, most likely living or working somewhere near the action had been, and that was a good start.

Or at least, after ninety years and having been around the world, it was good enough.

* * *

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	3. a sun in your hands from the middle life

Bucky and Steve have a conversation of some import.

Title from "Together" by the xx.

* * *

When Steve found him, he was training.

Shirt off, sweat-slick, coming unreasonably close to demolishing one of the punching bags specially reinforced for the Avengers' particular talents.

As he entered the room, Bucky's eyes flickered to him, then back to the bag as he wet his lips and hit it harder.

Steve, looking a little worse for wear himself, folded his arms across his chest, leaning in the doorway, watching him.

"Hey," he said. "You coming to bed soon?"

Bucky struck the punching bag harder. Again. Harder. Jaw set. Focused.

A beat. Two. Steve moved further into the room. Bucky tensed and hit the bag harder.

"You all right, Buck?"

This time, Bucky hit the bag so hard that it swung violently. He caught it in his hands, knuckles white as he held it in place, steadied it, steadied himself.

His nostrils flared slightly as he licked his lips.

"I found my soulmate," he said.

Steve's lips parted as a breath escaped them; his eyes widened, but only slightly as he slowly nodded, as though his mind were swallowing the information and needed a second.

"Wow. OK."

Bucky's fingers pressed harder into the bag; his metal hand was pressing too hard into the material.

He exhaled audibly, his breath already ragged from working out.

"You wanna talk about it?" Steve asked finally, moving to the other side of the bag, holding it, his fingertips brushing Bucky's.

Bucky's grip relaxed slightly.

"No," he said, then looked at Steve. "I dunno."

Steve waited, watching. There was a long silence while they stood there, the bag between them, holding it. Bucky rested his forehead against it, flexing and releasing his fingers under Steve's.

"What do you wanna do?" Steve asked, brushing his fingers over Bucky's again.

"I don't fuckin' know," Bucky ground out, closing his eyes, gripping the bag harder.

"Well, it's a good thing you don't have to figure it out tonight then, huh?" Steve said. "C'mon, how about a shower, then we can go to bed."

Finally, Bucky let go of the bag, moving to look Steve in the eyes, silent, lips pressed tight together, unable to open his mouth even with a thousand words pressed against the back of his teeth.

Steve gave him a half-smile.

"C'mon. Shower. Bed," he said, releasing the bag.

After watching him for a second, he went with him.

* * *

Notes: So um. This story is probably going to be a little complicated? Because Stucky is a thing.

But I fully intend for, er - Blaire? Clucky? Wat? Bucky/Claire - to be a thing, too. But there may be other things as well because humans are complicated and this soulmate trope is actually pretty complicated, too, and, well - I guess you'll just have to read more to find out what happens?

:hides: :D

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	4. take the force of the blow

In which Bucky and Claire actually have a legit conversation. Mostly! :D

Chapter title from "Protection" by Massive Attack.

* * *

Generally, there were two types of violent disruptions in New York City these days: local and galactic.

The local ones were typically handled by one or two enhanced individuals. The destruction was genuine and problematic, but typically limited to a few locations and highly reparable.

Disruptions on a galactic scale were monstrous. They leveled whole neighborhoods, in some cases, entire cities. Fortunately, Stark Industries had invested a lot in helping New York recover from these events, but they were getting more and more frequent. While it wasn't always New York (see: Sokovia, Lagos, Vienna, Sydney, Cairo, London, etc.), all this destruction had a real human cost to the "regular" people.

Case in point: the makeshift clinic that Claire was working at today.

She'd shifted her focus to "enhanced" humans (though she hadn't yet figured out how to make a living from it – not that that had ever stopped her before), but given recent events, the hospitals couldn't quite handle the volume on their own, so for the overflow, she'd worked with Father Eduardo at St. Cristobal's in East Harlem and a few other people from the community to set up the church basement to treat people after hours. It was hardly state of the art. It wasn't any kind of permanent solution, but people were getting some kind of service, at least.

Outside was still a shitshow; while the immediate threat had (maybe?) been neutralized, there was still falling debris, destroyed homes, and people trapped in Manhattan, since transit hadn't caught up to itself yet. But basements were, as always, good enough places to take shelter. Matt had already been by, which had managed to be less awkward than she would have anticipated if only because he'd been in and out relatively quickly. Misty had stopped in, too, mostly to check up on her, make sure she was OK. There'd been jokes and half-grins, she'd patched up a previously unnoticed cut on Misty's arm, and then she'd reluctantly sent her back off into the fray.

Claire kept her eyes open for Jessica despite the understanding that everyone was grown and could take care of themselves, even if they were bad at it.

This was what being the Night Nurse was.

So she tended to the regular people and waited for word.

The amount of work there was to do – not only tending wounds, but trying to get restocked, getting a hold of resources in an already seriously overtaxed city – was plenty to take her mind off worry or impatience. In fact, by the time the ice robot walked in, she'd been there for twelve hours, with no clear end in sight.

When he walked up, she didn't recognize him. He was wearing a faded, broken-in Dodgers cap, hair tucked behind his ears, at least a day's worth of stubble, jacket, shirt, jeans.

She didn't give him a second glance until he was right in front of her, and she didn't look up.

As she took down some notes for her last patient, she said, "Hi there, if you could just have a seat, I'll be with you in a minute."

If he was able to walk up to her and there was no blood spattered anywhere, he could wait.

Without speaking, he sat in the chair across from her, and it wasn't until she'd finished writing her sentence that she looked up to meet his eyes, and blinked.

"Oh," she said, lips slightly parted, her brow furrowing. "I – are you hurt?"

"No," he replied, still watching her. He was leaned back in the chair, seemingly at ease, though he'd moved the chair so that the back faced the wall, and he gave a glance around the room.

There was a pause that didn't take long to become pregnant.

"So… what are you doing here?" she asked, tilting her head, looking at him expectantly.

He looked around, then back at her.

"This location isn't secure," he noted. Claire raised an eyebrow and tilted her head to look at him askance.

"You came down here to tell me that this location isn't secure?" she asked.

"I came down here to…" something flickered in his expression before it smoothed out again. "We're soulmates."

She exhaled slowly, dropping back into the folding chair she was sitting in, setting her clipboard down on the folding table.

"OK," she said, running a hand through her hair. "So I guess you have 'gimme a minute' written somewhere on you?"

"Give me a goddamn minute," he corrected her, something subtle curving his lips and maybe lighting his eyes. Maybe.

Claire nodded, pressing her lips together ruefully.

"Right. Sorry about that, but I was kind of in the middle of something."

"Yeah," he conceded.

"So… I don't know if you noticed, but now isn't really a great time to be embarking on some kind of grand romance," she told him.

He wet his lips. Gave another quick, almost imperceptible glance around the room.

"I'm not – I just wanted to make sure you're safe. It's not really the best time for civvies to be out and about."

"I'm not a 'civvie,'" she said, pushing herself to her feet. He gave her a look.

"I mean, I'm not military," she amended. "But I'm a nurse. I've been taking care of people during this type of shit for years."

"Still a civvie," he replied. When she tilted her head toward a supply closet, he rose as well, following her.

"I've been in the field –"

He just looked at her. She huffed a breath as she went to the supply closet and started taking inventory.

"OK, fine. I'm a civvie. But people are getting hurt; they need medical care, and there's a shortage of people qualified to provide it. So here I am."

He nodded. "You should take my number. In case you need anything."

She cast an appraising look at him.

"I think most people exchange numbers with their soulmates just to, you know, get to know them."

He looked at her for a moment.

"New York City is a warzone right now."

"Yeah, I noticed," she huffed a mirthless laugh as she took out her phone.

"And I usually tend to find myself in warzones," he continued – kind of tonelessly, she thought.

"So you're basically saying to call you if I need to have something blown up or someone killed?" she said wryly.

He just looked at her.

"Jesus Christ," she breathed. He took her phone from her and started tapping.

"I'll text myself from your phone so I have your number," he said as he tapped, his fingers flying.

"Really, bruh?" she said, putting a hand on her cocked hip, looking at him incredulously. He paused, looking at her without guile.

"Do you not want me to have your number?"

"Well, I'm not gonna kill anybody for you," she said, folding her arms under her chest. A sardonic smile curved his lips.

"Probably wouldn't call you for that," he said, handing her the phone back. "I didn't text myself. If you need to reach me, that number works for right now. The other number, for Steve, is pretty reliable if you don't have a current number for me."

"Jesus Christ," she said again, tugging a hand through her hair as she looked at the new contact screen he'd made for himself. "Bucky Barnes? Wait – so you're – "

He nodded.

"So Steve is – did you just give me Captain Fucking America's phone number?" she said, her brows rising.

He nodded again, expressionless.

Tilting her head, for a second, she just looked at him. Scratched her eyebrow. Took a breath.

"OK then," she said on the exhale, then extended her hand to him reluctantly.

"Claire Temple." He took her hand and shook it, his fingers brushing over her wrist, and a different sort of smile – something charming, almost mischievous – seeming to change his face entirely for just a moment before it shifted back to neutral.

"Nice to meet you, Claire."

* * *

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	5. i wanna moor my heart

Chapter 5: i wanna moor my heart

 **Summary:** In which I fail the Bechdel Test miserably, but I'm cool with it because my headcanon is full of scenes in which they talk about all manner of other things.

 **Notes:** Title from "Sweet Samsara Part I" by Miho Hatori

* * *

They were sprawled out on Misty's couch, in pyjamas, wineglasses in hand, the bottle on the coffee table. Hair pineappled, Misty absently massaged lotion into her calves as she sipped the Syrah.

"So he's white?" Misty said with a grin.

"Shut up," Claire said, considering throwing a pillow at her, but not wanting to get Syrah all over the upholstery.

"No judgment," she said with a laugh, giving her calf a squeeze. "I'm just sayin', given your track record, it's not that surprising."

"Excuse you," Claire said, "but my track record looks like the United Colors of Benetton, thankyouverymuch."

"Oh, I _know_ , girl," Misty laughed. "I was just sure it'd be Luke. You talked to him about this?"

Claire wet her lips and leaned her head back against the sofa. Misty reached for her arm and wiped excess lotion onto her skin, and Claire absently started rubbing it in.

"No." She turned her head to look at Misty. "I'm not even fucking him."

"Who, Luke?" Misty asked, brow arched. Claire shook her head with a frown.

"No – I mean, no, not him either. Yet. Shit." She took another long drink of wine. "I'm not fucking the white dude."

"Because he's white?" Misty was grinning again.

Claire just gave her a dry, withering look. Misty's grin didn't waver, though it did take on a more sympathetic light as she patted Claire's leg.

"So does this white dude have a name?" Misty asked, taking a sip of wine.

Claire looked at her sideways, pausing for a second before she said, finally, "…Bucky."

Misty almost did a spit-take, as it was, covering her mouth and almost drowning in her wine before her laughter took over.

"Bucky? What the hell kinda name is Bucky? Is he some kinda redneck?"

"Oh, OK, _Misty_ ," she said, taking a long drink of her own wine.

"Girl, first of all, Misty is cute. Misty is sexy. Misty is mysterious," Misty said, pointing a finger at Claire.

"Misty is short for Mercedes, which I'm betting somebody in your family couldn't pronounce at the time," Claire said, pointing a finger back at the other woman.

Misty grinned.

"True," Misty said with a grin. "Still, it ain't no _Bucky_. That is some ridiculous white people shit. What's his last name – wait."

Misty's expression changed, suspicious now. "It's not –"

"—Barnes," Claire finished.

"Shut your damn mouth," Misty exclaimed, wine dangerously close to sloshing out of the glass. "Bucky 'The Winter Soldier' Barnes? Bucky 'Been Brainwashed for Seventy Years' Barnes?"

Claire nodded, blowing a cheek-puffing breath before taking another long sip of wine.

"Jesus, girl," Misty said, putting a hand on Claire's back and stroking lightly with her thumb. "That is some shit, ain't it?"

"It is," Claire said with a shake of her head. "And most of the time, he's pretty fucking _weird_. While last week I was super hype about Luke, who is basically the perfect guy."

"Well, except for the criminal record. And the constant danger. Though I guess that second one is kind of a thing for you."

Claire laughed. "I can't help it if all the men I meet are constantly trying to save the city."

"Or the world," Misty added. "And you could help it, if you'd just have toed the line at the hospital and stopped getting all mixed up with these super-powered types."

Arching a brow, Claire gave Misty a _look_. "I could say the same thing about you, mama."

"True," Misty conceded with a shrug.

"That's why this soulmate stuff is so dumb," she said, pointing her wineglass slightly at Claire before taking another sip. "Fucks up perfectly good, already-existing relationships."

"I wish you were my soulmate," Claire muttered with a frown. Misty smiled and gave her leg a squeeze.

"Aw, baby girl… I think that might fuck things up with Colleen though."

Claire bit the inside of her cheek.

"I mean if it wasn't Colleen. I like Colleen," she said. Misty laughed.

"Well, that's good," she said with a grin. "'Cause I'm pretty sure bae would beat your ass."

"You know what I mean," Claire said. "I don't know this guy at all except for what I've read about him, which doesn't seem good. He's all dead-eyed and… I don't know."

She took a breath. "Brainwashing, you know?"

Misty nodded, then squeezed her leg again. "Yeah, that is some shit."

For a moment, they both sipped their wine. Misty was the one to break the silence.

"So what are you gonna do?" she asked. Claire sighed.

"I don't know," she said on an exhale. "I mean, what is this? Don't we get a choice? This guy is probably seriously mentally unstable."

"Probably," Misty agreed, nodding, finishing off her wine. As she reached for the bottle to top them both off, her phone started buzzing. So did Claire's.

"Shit," they said in unison.

* * *

 **Notes:** Next chapter, some action! We'll see how that goes.

As always, check me out on Tumblr at something-pithy


	6. giving blood, keeping faith

Chapter 6: giving blood, keeping faith

 **Summary:** In which there is violence, Bucky's PoV, and some conflict.

 **Notes:** Chapter title from "The Patient" by Tool.

* * *

He tasted blood in his mouth.

His movements were swift, efficient, brutal.

Legs, arms, fists, blades, guns, moving with the speed and purpose of a machine.

He was a machine, meant to fill a purpose.

The impact of his fist against flesh and bone met with a slap and a crunch, a twist and a crack; threw the inert body down, impassive to the grunt of pain morphed into a scream.

Crowbar to the ribs; a stagger morphed into a pivot, then a grip on Kevlar, fabric tearing; one strike, two. Armbar. A snap.

Next.

The chaos was intentional, a distraction. But he had to get through the chaos to get to the source, to put it down. Civilians were men possessed, but civilians on the offensive were combatants.

There was a mission.

His eyes were on the target. Moving. Creating distance.

He started to run.

Gunfire; he used his arm as a shield. A car barreling toward him; vaulted onto the roof; the car crashed behind him as he leapt off.

Night stick to the face, blocked by his flesh arm.

Blue. A badge.

A thick throat in his grip; a slam to the ground. A crunch.

A female voice in the distance. Ignored. More gunfire. Blocked with the vibranium arm.

The woman was between him and the target.

Running. Again.

Gunfire. The arm. He was almost at the woman.

" _Barnes!_ "

A different voice. _That_ voice.

It was sudden, breakneck, the shift in him. His singular focus shattered by her sudden presence, her scent, her voice, her eyes, huge and disbelieving, her palm against his chest, his chest heaving, breathing ragged from the adrenaline, from the force and velocity and momentum of him suddenly stopped by _her_.

What the ever-loving _fuck_.

He didn't speak. His jaw was clenched, his pupils blown, his hands balled into fists. His gaze flickered to the empty space where the target had been. Gone.

Fucking. Gone.

Suddenly, the scene around him started crashing into his consciousness; screams, groans, sobs; terrified voices trying to make sense of the nightmare they'd just awakened from.

"… gotta get him the fuck outta here, Claire," the woman said. The woman Claire was standing in front of.

Claire's gaze was trained on his face, and it wasn't moving as she responded to the other woman.

"Do you need him to go down to the station?"

"I'm not going to the station," he said, his voice low, even, and very, very clear.

"Um, you sure as shit will," the woman said. "Best case scenario, you're gonna have to give a statement –"

"I'm not going to the station," he repeated, his gaze trained on Claire now.

"Maybe not right now, Misty," Claire said, still looking at him. "I'll get him down there, OK? But right now –"

The other woman – Misty – huffed a breath, looking around at the carnage.

"Just get the hell out of here and don't let him leave town, you heard?"

"I got you, girl," Claire said. Finally, she turned away from him to reach out and touch the other woman's arm. The other woman nodded, reached out, squeezed her hand.

"Call me, OK?"

"I got you," Claire said again. He watched her, felt her hand on his, felt her pulling him. He moved with her until they turned a corner, then began pulling her in another direction.

"Hey," she said. He ignored her, picking up the pace. She was nearly running to keep up.

"Hey!" she repeated, more emphatically. "Where are we going?"

"To your mother's house," he said, his gaze fixed on the street, not slowing down.

"What – I'm not sure this is the best time for you to meet my damn mother, given that you're covered in blood, you look like you just got into a barfight with Yankee stadium, and I think you may have just had a psychotic break," she retorted, gripping his hand tighter, digging her short nails into his skin. A pause. "And how the _fuck_ do you know where my mother lives?"

Now he looked at her – a sidelong look that communicated the obviousness of the answer to the question.

"Oh get the fuck out of here with all your crazy superanti-hero I-can-find-out-anything-I-want-about-some-regular-ass-people-like-you mean mugging!" she sniped at him. "You are _not_ going to my mother's house looking like _that_."

"I'm not going to your mother's house," he told her plainly. "You are."

She stopped. He did, too. Dragging her down 145th Street seemed like it might have been a bad idea on a number of levels, and while he wasn't the best at sussing out the nuances of human relationships these days, he was able to gather at least that much.

"So," she said slowly, something glinting in her eyes that belied the slow draw of that syllable, "you think you're gonna drop me off at my mother's after you just went on a rampage in the middle of Harlem, while you look like somebody just tried to put you in a blender? Good fucking luck, cabrón."

He turned to face her fully, expression neutral, a little tight around the lips.

"I need to go," he said evenly.

"No, you really don't," she said, taking out her phone. "You need to tell me what the fuck is going on while I patch you up."

She let go of his hand to tap out a text.

"What are you doing?" he asked, looking sharply at the motion of her thumb.

"Texting my mom to see if she's working tonight. If she is, _then_ we can go to her place for as long as it takes to take care of –" she motioned up and down with her free hand in his general direction "—all this."

He looked at her for a moment, disbelieving, not quite sure what to make of her. Before he could decide, she was sliding her phone into her pocket.

"OK, she's working late. _Now_ we can go. Come on," she said, taking her hand.

"Right," he said, jaw set, but not releasing her hand.

Notes: Next time: Bucky needs patching up, and Claire needs some damn answers! This is a thing that will happen, though possibly not tomorrow? Thursdays are hella busy for me, so I'm not making any promises, but soon. SOON!

* * *

 **Notes:** As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	7. leave me listening to the stones

Chapter 7: leave me listening to the stones

 **Summary:** In which we learn a little bit about the "plot" of this story, and there is some voice-raising and cursing and idek

 **Notes:** Title from "I Want It All" by Arctic Monkeys. I am reaching that point in the fic where I'm starting to second-guess everything and I could REALLY use some workshopping feedback. If anyone's interested in beta-ing or helping me work out kinks and refine this thing, let me know! Outside of that, it's this neurosis that made this update take a little longer - please enjoy!

* * *

In a moment long after this one, Claire would be surprised that neither of their jaws broke for how tightly they were clenched.

Soledad Temple lived on the garden level of a Harlem brownstone. When they entered the apartment, it was dark and quiet – or as quiet as it could be for the anarchic violence happening just a few blocks away. Sirens blared, shots fired, and it felt as though the ground rumbled more than once. Bucky pushed them to a run for the last block to the brownstone, but Claire's hands were steady as she unlocked the deadbolt and let them in, and when the door closed, the anarchy at least seemed a little further away.

When she turned to face him, he was watching her impassively, except for the stone set of that jaw.

Here, removed from the fray, she looked back at him.

She wasn't a stranger to violence – certainly not the results of it, but not acts of it either. Even so, the speed and surgical calculation of what he'd done out there, and –

"What were you doing there?" he asked.

"What?" she retorted, throwing her keys into her bag, then throwing her bag onto the table by the door. "I live here. I got a text from a friend who said they needed me at the clinic, and on my way there, we ran into _that_. Sit down and take off that -" she motioned to his tac gear, "—whatever that is."

He paused for a beat, stone-faced, before he started to comply. As she pulled her go bag out of the closet by the front door, she said,

"What the shit were _you_ doing there? What are you doing _here_ , in New York? Are you a part of all this shit?"

There'd been explosions of fighting and destruction all over the city; people losing their damn minds. You could say a lot about New York, about the dirt, about the danger, but the only way a city of its size and population density could function was through systems. Someone was disrupting those systems, but not just on the physical level; people were snapping. Not just pushing each other, not just lashing out, but suddenly and seemingly without reason visiting brutality on each other that, despite its reputation, were just not normal for the city. They were acting, for lack of a better term, batshit crazy.

"No," he replied as he took off his leather jacket, revealing the tac vest underneath, which he started to remove. "Not in the way you mean."

After a moment of silence, she squinted a glare at him as she opened the go bag and started taking out supplies.

"Uh, care to elaborate on that? Or do you just do this robot thing full time until your enemies lose their fucking shit at how annoying it is?"

"You're not my enemy," he replied, setting the tac vest down.

"Oh, well that's a fucking relief, because it's kind of hard to tell who could be next, based on what just happened out there," she said, slamming down a box of bandages.

His jaw was tight again, something flashing in his eyes .

"You have no idea what's going on out there."

"Well, seeing as how you're being so forthcoming about it, I can't imagine why that would be!"

He exhaled through his nose in a heavy, frustrated burst of air.

"I'm just trying to keep you –"

"Do _not_ say the word ' _safe_ ' right now, or I really _am_ going to lose my shit!"

"This is not a game, Claire!" his voice finally rose in a snarl. "This isn't a purse snatcher or a gang initiation! This is a whole other level!"

"Don't you _dare_ condescend to me, Barnes! The fuck you think I've been doing, living in a bunker? Believe it or not, even us folk in the hood watch the news sometimes, read the paper, have internet access. You not telling me what's going on out there is not protection, if anything, it makes me _less_ prepared and _less_ safe."

A muscle worked in his jaw now, his hands fisted. She stood there, hands on her hips.

"Now take your shirt off."

He started to, and as he did, the brutal watercolor of bruises on his ribs came into view, and Claire inadvertently winced in empathy. She moved forward to help him, but he shook his head.

"I've got it," he said as he pulled his shirt over his head awkwardly – he was favoring his metal arm, and so despite his protests, she moved to help him, her movements efficient, precise, but with an underling gentleness. As they got his shirt off, they revealed the gleam of his arm, the red star, the clear conditioning of his physical form, and the scars.

There weren't as many of them as she would have expected, but his accelerated healing might have had something to do with that.

Once he'd pulled his shirt over his head, he noticed the direction of her gaze and said, "I'm pretty sure they're bruised, not broken. I probably need to set the bone in my arm to make sure it heals right, though."

She looked at his arm, then, wetting her lips thoughtfully.

"I guess you don't need a cast?" she asked, glancing up at his face.

"Not usually," he said.

"I'd feel better if we at least wrapped it up to set it," she said.

He shrugged. "OK."

Setting it was brutal; he was much more helpful than the average patient, and his expression didn't change at all while it as happening. The sounds were familiar, but usually someone hearing the snaps of bones being put back into place would at least wince – often cry out.

But if Bucky Barnes was anything, it definitely wasn't usual.

As she started to wrap his arm, they'd been silent for a while. It was in a calmer, low voice that she asked,

"I need you to tell me what's going on, Barnes – you were destroying innocent people, throwing them around like rag dolls. Killing people."

He didn't look at her; instead, he looked off in the distance, cold and detached.

"I didn't kill anyone."

She glanced up at him. "Close enough," she said.

"No," he said, "it isn't."

"They're still innocents," she protested, carefully placing the bandage as she wrapped his forearm. "I need to go back out there and handle all that. The least you can do is tell me why."

He huffed a breath, watching her hands as she smoothed the bandage over his skin.

"You've heard of the Infinity Stones?"

She shook her head, finishing wrapping his arm, then went into her bag, getting gauze.

"OK, you knew about Loki, though, and Ultron?"

"Yeah," she said. "Crazy shit, mind contr – oh."

She opened a bottle of water and wet the gauze with it.

"Yeah," he said. "There's a guy – a thing – that's gotten a handle on mass mind control, and we need to find out if there's any relationship."

"Why is it always mind control?" she murmured, then moved closer to him, dabbing at the blood around his lips, looking at his jaw.

His lips twisted wryly.

"Oh – sorry," she said, looking him in the eyes, suddenly much closer in proximity than either of them expected in that moment.

"It's OK," he said, holding her gaze as she continued to clean his face on autopilot. "I guess it's kind of a thing."

"Right," she said, biting her lip then cleaning deep gash near his hairline.

"Anyway, while we don't think this guy necessarily has an Infinity stone, rumor has it he's after one, and he's creating a lot of destruction in the meantime for reasons we haven't figured out yet."

"Do they usually have reasons?" she asked, getting a bottle of peroxide from her bag.

"People usually have reasons. Whether or not they make sense to anybody else is another question."

Claire hummed and wet another piece of gauze with the hydrogen peroxide, then started cleaning the cut with it. Bucky hissed.

Her eyes widened, and she laughed.

"Are you kidding?" she asked. "We just re-set your broken-ass arm and you didn't even blink, but you're mad about _peroxide_?"

"I wasn't ready for it," he said defensively, though something like a rueful smile started to curve his lips. "I hate that stuff."

"OK, tough guy, I'll try to keep that in mind," she said with a smirk, though her touch did gentle somewhat. "So you're gonna get back out there and save the world?"

"Something like that," he said, watching her.

"It matters when you hurt people, you know. They don't have super healing powers. If you break somebody's bones, there are long-term consequences for that person. They can't work, maybe can't eat, maybe can't cover rent."

He got a distant look again as he turned his gaze to the window.

"In a war, sometimes there's collateral damage."

"Don't give me that shit," she said, throwing the gauze in a small trash bin nearby, then got some butterfly sutures from her kit. "You don't just get to wash your hands of the way what you do affects people who don't wear capes."

"Only Thor wears a cape," he said.

"You know what I mean," she said impatiently as she unwrapped one of the sutures.

"Yeah," he said, "I do. And I know."

"You know what?" she asked as she carefully applied the suture to the gash in his forehead.

"I know that I've hurt a lot of people," his voice was very quiet. The cut was already healing. "But how many more people get hurt if we don't stop this guy? How many more people are gonna get hurt because I didn't stop him today?"

Claire looked at him then, wetting her lips. Then she looked at his forehead; the cut was already half the size it had been, pink around the edges.

"Jesus," she said. "This is – Jesus Christ, I am literally watching you heal right now!"

"Yeah," he said, flexing the fingers in his flesh hand, looking at his arm. She huffed a sigh.

"I guess we better get back out there, then."

"Claire –"

"Don't worry, Rambo," she said, handing him his shirt. "I probably wouldn't be as useful fighting some crazy super-powered alien force as I would working triage in the clinic, so that's where I'm headed."

He frowned as he started to pull the shirt on.

"It's still not –"

'Yeah, I know, it's not safe," she said, helping him with his sleeve. Her fingers brushed his arm as they worked together, and he stilled for a moment. "But neither is chasing down some mind-controlling dude possibly bent on galactic domination, right?"

He looked at her, and something in his eyes, something lost, or vulnerable, or something, flickered there as they stood there together, watching each other. His hand moved, almost reaching for something, but then dropped to his side.

"Make sure you call me if anything, OK? Or Steve. He'll take care of it if I can't."

"Are you gonna call me if you get all fucked up?" she challenged.

"I don't have your number, remember?"

She gave him a long-suffering look.

"You were able to figure out where my mom lives, you telling me you can't get a hold of my phone number?"

"Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather you give it to me."

"Are you flirting with me right now?" she asked, arching a brow.

At that point, he grinned. It was mischievous, mirthful, and alarming in how disarming and sexy it was. Claire blinked. The grin broadened slightly.

"Just tryin' to be respectful, ma'am," he said. She took her phone out, slightly flustered and covering it up with exasperation. After tapping in a few keys, she said, "There. I texted you. Now you have my number. So you'll call me if you get all fucked up, or if you need something, or if there's something I need to know, right?"

He watched her for a second, and the grin faded, but a half-smile still lingered, like he couldn't shake his amusement at some secret joke. She narrowed her eyes expectantly at him.

"Right," he said finally, then reached for his tac vest to start putting it on. Satisfied, she started packing up her go bag with swift efficiency.

"Good," she said. By the time she was all packed up, he was ready to go, looking at the apartment. He turned his attention to her when the bag was packed.

"You should let me go first. Better if nobody sees you with me right now."

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Get gone, boy. Text me and let me know you're alive at some point."

His expression sobered.

"You too, Claire."

The weight of his words made her shift, a little uncomfortable.

"OK," she said. With a nod, he opened the door and closed it behind him without a sound.

* * *

Notes: As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	8. i can't touch it even though it's mine

Chapter 8: i can't touch it even though it's mine

 **Summary:** In which Bucky considers his relationship with Steve, and starts to feel conflicted about what his soul bond is supposed to mean.

 **Notes:** Title from "Kill V. Maim" by Grimes. So, at some point, the rating on this story is going to go up, but it's not going to be soon. However, because I am extremely impatient, I might be posting a smut drabble or two in my drabble series, because at the end of the day I am a pervert with no ability to defer gratification.

* * *

The fact was, not everyone had a soulmark, and that you didn't have them from birth.

This made things complicated.

Back in the '40s, Bucky hadn't really considered Steve as a possibility for a soulmate. Soulmates for guys were dames, and vice versa. And besides, he couldn't think of a situation where Steve would have told him to give him a goddamn minute, even if they weren't the first words his soulmate was supposed to say to him.

The soul bond didn't have to be romantic, he knew that, and so in a way, it'd never made sense to Bucky that he and Steve _weren't_ soulmates. Growing up, there'd been a balance to them that had made them fit together almost too perfectly. Steve was easily the best guy he knew, and there was something in him that wanted – needed – to protect that. If the admiration he'd had for Steve as a human being had gone beyond what buddies normally felt for each other, that was just because Steve Rogers was way beyond a normal guy, even before he became the Cap.

And then he did become the Cap.

That had gotten… more complicated.

All of a sudden, Steve didn't need protecting anymore; didn't need saving. The idea that now he, Bucky, was the one who needed his ass pulled out of a sling was unsettling. And now, there was a physical thing happening.

Bucky liked girls. Always had, that was never in question. In fact, if anything, he maybe liked 'em too much, at least according to some of them. But now and then – more often than he'd been willing to think about – thoughts of Steve were coming up at times that, well, just weren't normal, as far as he could gather. Dirt-streaked, sweat-slick, bare-skinned –

Well, there were always more girls to set his mind right again.

And he was happy for Steve when it looked like things might actually go somewhere with Peggy. God knew Steve needed to work at least a little of that straight-lacedness out of his system. But there was a twinge that he pushed down, that he drank and fought and fucked away, and mixed up as it was with the fact that Steve didn't _need_ him anymore, and Bucky's preference not to look too close at any of these feelings (feelings, for crying out loud, maybe he _was_ spending too much time with dames) made it easy to just… put it all away.

Right up until he died.

In the years that followed, frozen and thawed, made into a weapon, any thoughts or memories or feelings a liability, it was all a blank slate. It was just purpose, complete the mission, get refined, get sharpened to a point. Shape the world. There was no Steve, there was no Bucky, there was only the Winter Soldier and whatever end goal he was given.

Sometimes there were dreams, he thought, maybe – disjointed images that didn't make any sense, and that the treatments got rid of. It was almost worth the agony of the chair to be rid of the conflict, of the confusion.

Almost.

Eventually, they'd found their way back. Found their way into Steve's bed, sometimes Bucky's (more often Steve's) and the conflict and confusion could be eased or at least set aside for a while with lips, tongues, teeth; matched strength, and other, more innocent touches.

Innocent. Was that a word he got to say anymore?

It felt that way, sometimes, the devotion that had never died, the understanding, the balance.

The laughs. Steve could still make him laugh. Sometimes, for just a second, he felt like Bucky again. Old Bucky, unburdened Bucky, Bucky who hadn't been made into a weapon, a murderer. Who hadn't helped shape the world into something uglier, something darker.

Most of the time, it felt like Steve was the only person who knew him; that was probably true. Most of the time, it felt like Steve was the only person he could relate to, who could see the humanity in him. Bucky could see the humanity of other people now, usually, but that only made things harder. Darker.

The Soldier was a betrayal of Steve. Yeah, he knew that it hadn't been his choice, and Steve said he was as much a victim as anyone he'd hurt, but that seemed like a lot of bull, at the end of the day. It'd been his hands, his blades. That brutality lived in him, and the truth was, he'd never felt quite that kind of mechanical fulfillment before or after.

Being Bucky was much messier.

It was easier when he was the soldier in a lot of ways, but Steve had a way of keeping him present. Giving him what he needed to keep being Bucky.

And now, in Steve's bed, Steve asleep next to him, when Bucky woke with images of dark eyes, dark hair, caramel skin, that low, fluid, feminine voice, and slim, steady hands doing delicate, graceful work, it felt like another betrayal.

Usually, Steve's breathing could lull him to sleep eventually, even after the worst nightmares. But after these traitor dreams, it only unsettled him more; amplified that pit of disquiet in his stomach.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to get up and go back to his own bed, or to the training room, or anywhere else. So instead, he turned his head to look at Steve, staring and thinking until the room started to turn gray instead of black.

* * *

 **Notes:** Next up: Reunions, more tension, Luke Cage, and coffee! Actual coffee, not euphemistic coffee. Sorry! :D

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	9. bend it never break it

Chapter 9: bend it never break it

 **Summary:** In which Claire and Luke get some dinner, flirt, and discuss the "situation."

 **Notes:** Title from "Yoga" by Janelle Monae.

* * *

It wasn't fair, the way Luke made her stomach flip these days.

When they'd first met, it hadn't been anything. Well, of course she'd noticed what he looked like – how could you not? He was so good-looking it was almost a parody of what good-looking was supposed to be. But when you're in the ER, you're generally not focused on who looks like God just carved him out of chocolate marble, and Claire was really good at focus.

But the time they'd spent together in the weeks before he'd left – in Harlem, which was home, at Seagate, which just…

That might have been when the real stomach acrobatics had started.

It had been obvious, despite his corny playa-lines, that he was smart. Very, very smart. That was a turn-on, always. But the fact that he'd made it through Seagate – understanding what he'd suffered through, what he'd lost, and that he'd come out of it still whole, still real, still good –

He was so different than Matt, who was good, but was so weighed down by guilt and self-loathing that he couldn't be in anything remotely resembling a healthy relationship.

Luke understood loss, understood hurt, but it hadn't broken him. It would never break him.

And that, combined with his thoughtfulness, and, to be honest, his corniness, was hotter than the fact that he was built like a brick shithouse.

Not that the fact that he was built like a brick shithouse hurt the situation at all.

And now he was back, and he was here, and he was giving her that smile, and she wanted to kiss him more than she'd wanted to do anything in the past two months.

But then there was that goddamn soulmark.

The world had taken a break from falling apart today; Harlem was in recovery, as were multiple neighborhoods in Manhattan, and Luke had come back just in time to help start putting things back together – of course.

Here he was, at the clinic, smiling that smile, and after close to a double shift, she was probably looking a hot mess, but you'd never know that from the way he was looking at her.

What the fuck was her life?

"So, I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life, but I think you should come get something to eat with me," he said.

She gave him a weary half-grin.

"Is that what you think?"

"Yeah," he said, still smiling.

She sighed, pulling a hand through her hair, looking around the clinic.

"Things have been really crazy here," she said.

"That's all the more reason you should come get something to eat with me. How long you been here?" he asked.

She looked at the clock on the wall. "Uh… about fourteen hours."

"C'mon," he said, offering her his hand. "If you pass out from exhaustion or hunger, you're only gonna make more work for everybody else."

She smirked at him, shaking her head, then slid her hand into his.

"Everybody always say yes to you?" she asked.

"Always," he said with a smile.

"Corny," she grinned.

They made it through most of the meal with catch-up – how he'd cleared his name in Georgia, the shitshow that had been happening up here, the new enhanced humans that had shown up in his absence, how new ones seemed to be showing up every day, yes, but also what'd been going on in the neighborhood, plans for Pop's old shop, what the kids in the 'hood were up to. Claire suggested a Cuban spot in East Harlem because, having just come back from Georgia, he wasn't ready for Northern soul food again just yet.

So it was when the café con leche arrived with their tres leches that she looked down into her little cup and sighed.

Watching her, he took a sip of his own coffee.

"So I guess it's time for you to tell me whatever's been on your mind this whole time?" he asked. She looked up, arching a brow.

"Is it that obvious?" she asked.

"Well, never let it be said that I'm the most perceptive when it comes to women hiding things, but you are kinda easy to read."

"Wow, I'm gonna try to take that one as a compliment," she said wryly.

"It is," he said. "It's nice to be around somebody who doesn't spend a lot of time trying to hide how she feels."

She exhaled heavily and took a sip of her own coffee.

"Well, I guess that's a good thing," she said. "I met my soulmate."

When he was silent, she looked up to watch his face. His expression was hard to read; maybe regretful, but with a half-smile.

"Damn. And I haven't even gotten to use my best lines on you yet."

She shook her head.

"Really? And here I thought that 'always' thing was the big gun."

"Girl, I haven't even started."

"Well, that's good news," she said with a smirk.

"So, is it the crash-bang, true love at first sight kinda soulmate? I'm guessing from the way you said it it's not a best-girlfriend for life soulmate."

"I mean, there hasn't really been any crash-banging," she said, picking up her spoon, "but he's definitely not a best girlfriend."

"So it is a he," he said, dipping his spoon into the cake.

"Yeah," she said. "But I don't know much else in terms of what the connection means."

"So that means you're still seeing other people?" he said.

"Well, considering I'm not really seeing _him_ , yeah," she replied, scooping up a bite of cake herself. "I'm not really seeing anybody, in that sense. But I figured it was information you deserved to know."

"Anybody besides me," he said after taking his bite, then pointing his spoon at her. She gave him a half-smile.

"Yeah, I guess," she said.

"So how'd you meet?" he asked, watching her. "Coffee shop? Walking your dogs? Tinder?

She smirked.

"Not much time for coffee shops, I don't have a dog, and I don't do Tinder." She took a bite of the tres leches. "He threw himself on top of me to shield me from an explosion."

Luke arched a brow. "How'd that work out for him?" he asked.

"He's enhanced," she said, stirring her coffee, hair curtaining her face.

"So you've got a type," he said, a gentle tease in his voice. She tucked her hair behind her ear, arching her own brow, now.

"Yeah, super-powered men who lack at least some kinda sense."z

He took a sip of his coffee and smiled.

"Mmm, I do love a good Cuban roast," he said, licking his lower lip clean.

"So fucking corny," she said with a laugh, her eyes flickering to his mouth.

He grinned.

* * *

 **Notes:** Next time, some Bucky and Claire interaction, maybe some plot advancement, and who knows what else! Thank you for reading! :D

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	10. give me things that i wanted to know

Chapter 6: giving blood, keeping faith

 **Summary:** In which there is violence, Bucky's PoV, and some conflict.

 **Notes:** Chapter title from "The Patient" by Tool.

* * *

He tasted blood in his mouth.

His movements were swift, efficient, brutal.

Legs, arms, fists, blades, guns, moving with the speed and purpose of a machine.

He was a machine, meant to fill a purpose.

The impact of his fist against flesh and bone met with a slap and a crunch, a twist and a crack; threw the inert body down, impassive to the grunt of pain morphed into a scream.

Crowbar to the ribs; a stagger morphed into a pivot, then a grip on Kevlar, fabric tearing; one strike, two. Armbar. A snap.

Next.

The chaos was intentional, a distraction. But he had to get through the chaos to get to the source, to put it down. Civilians were men possessed, but civilians on the offensive were combatants.

There was a mission.

His eyes were on the target. Moving. Creating distance.

He started to run.

Gunfire; he used his arm as a shield. A car barreling toward him; vaulted onto the roof; the car crashed behind him as he leapt off.

Night stick to the face, blocked by his flesh arm.

Blue. A badge.

A thick throat in his grip; a slam to the ground. A crunch.

A female voice in the distance. Ignored. More gunfire. Blocked with the vibranium arm.

The woman was between him and the target.

Running. Again.

Gunfire. The arm. He was almost at the woman.

" _Barnes!_ "

A different voice. _That_ voice.

It was sudden, breakneck, the shift in him. His singular focus shattered by her sudden presence, her scent, her voice, her eyes, huge and disbelieving, her palm against his chest, his chest heaving, breathing ragged from the adrenaline, from the force and velocity and momentum of him suddenly stopped by _her_.

What the ever-loving _fuck_.

He didn't speak. His jaw was clenched, his pupils blown, his hands balled into fists. His gaze flickered to the empty space where the target had been. Gone.

Fucking. Gone.

Suddenly, the scene around him started crashing into his consciousness; screams, groans, sobs; terrified voices trying to make sense of the nightmare they'd just awakened from.

"… gotta get him the fuck outta here, Claire," the woman said. The woman Claire was standing in front of.

Claire's gaze was trained on his face, and it wasn't moving as she responded to the other woman.

"Do you need him to go down to the station?"

"I'm not going to the station," he said, his voice low, even, and very, very clear.

"Um, you sure as shit will," the woman said. "Best case scenario, you're gonna have to give a statement –"

"I'm not going to the station," he repeated, his gaze trained on Claire now.

"Maybe not right now, Misty," Claire said, still looking at him. "I'll get him down there, OK? But right now –"

The other woman – Misty – huffed a breath, looking around at the carnage.

"Just get the hell out of here and don't let him leave town, you heard?"

"I got you, girl," Claire said. Finally, she turned away from him to reach out and touch the other woman's arm. The other woman nodded, reached out, squeezed her hand.

"Call me, OK?"

"I got you," Claire said again. He watched her, felt her hand on his, felt her pulling him. He moved with her until they turned a corner, then began pulling her in another direction.

"Hey," she said. He ignored her, picking up the pace. She was nearly running to keep up.

"Hey!" she repeated, more emphatically. "Where are we going?"

"To your mother's house," he said, his gaze fixed on the street, not slowing down.

"What – I'm not sure this is the best time for you to meet my damn mother, given that you're covered in blood, you look like you just got into a barfight with Yankee stadium, and I think you may have just had a psychotic break," she retorted, gripping his hand tighter, digging her short nails into his skin. A pause. "And how the _fuck_ do you know where my mother lives?"

Now he looked at her – a sidelong look that communicated the obviousness of the answer to the question.

"Oh get the fuck out of here with all your crazy superanti-hero I-can-find-out-anything-I-want-about-some-regular-ass-people-like-you mean mugging!" she sniped at him. "You are _not_ going to my mother's house looking like _that_."

"I'm not going to your mother's house," he told her plainly. "You are."

She stopped. He did, too. Dragging her down 145th Street seemed like it might have been a bad idea on a number of levels, and while he wasn't the best at sussing out the nuances of human relationships these days, he was able to gather at least that much.

"So," she said slowly, something glinting in her eyes that belied the slow draw of that syllable, "you think you're gonna drop me off at my mother's after you just went on a rampage in the middle of Harlem, while you look like somebody just tried to put you in a blender? Good fucking luck, cabrón."

He turned to face her fully, expression neutral, a little tight around the lips.

"I need to go," he said evenly.

"No, you really don't," she said, taking out her phone. "You need to tell me what the fuck is going on while I patch you up."

She let go of his hand to tap out a text.

"What are you doing?" he asked, looking sharply at the motion of her thumb.

"Texting my mom to see if she's working tonight. If she is, _then_ we can go to her place for as long as it takes to take care of –" she motioned up and down with her free hand in his general direction "—all this."

He looked at her for a moment, disbelieving, not quite sure what to make of her. Before he could decide, she was sliding her phone into her pocket.

"OK, she's working late. _Now_ we can go. Come on," she said, taking her hand.

"Right," he said, jaw set, but not releasing her hand.

Notes: Next time: Bucky needs patching up, and Claire needs some damn answers! This is a thing that will happen, though possibly not tomorrow? Thursdays are hella busy for me, so I'm not making any promises, but soon. SOON!

* * *

 **Notes:** As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	11. nothing's gonna hurt you, baby

Chapter 11: nothing's gonna hurt you, baby

Summary: In which there are revelations and feels. :D

Notes: Title from "Nothing's Gonna Hurt You, Baby" by Cigarettes After Sex

This time, it was just a drive by. Or something like that.

There was a power vacuum in Harlem now – or at least that's the way it was perceived. When there were shifts, when there were changes, there were always tests, and now they were on the floor of the diner, shattered glass and plates all around them, her tucked under his broad frame, his hair curtaining their faces. There was a cut on his cheek from the explosion of the window, and without thinking, she reached up to trace the skin around it.

He went very still; his eyes had been on the other patrons of the diner, on the window, calculating, and her motion seemed to pause him for a minute, but he didn't look down at her. It was another half-second before he did.

He was pressed flush to her.

"Are you OK?" they said in unison. Bucky blinked. Claire made a face.

"Eugh, God, are we destined to be this precious for the rest of our lives?"

A ghost of a smile haunted his face before he got up, then took her hand, pulling her to her feet as well. Brushing glass and ceramic shards off her clothes and out of her hair, she turned her attention to him; he was still taking stock of the room.

"This happen often around here?" he asked.

"Just lately," she said with a sigh, looking regretfully down at their lunches. "There's some organized crime shit going on that hasn't been quite resolved yet, I guess."

He watched her as she brushed off his shoulders.

"You ever think about moving?" he asked.

"To where?" she countered, glancing up at him, taking a closer look at his cheek now.

"I dunno, somewhere people aren't shooting up your favorite lunch spots," he said.

"What, like the suburbs?" she asked, arching a brow as she reached for her bag. "Not my style."

Stoically, he stood as she plucked the glass from his cheek and cleaned it up; it was already healing by the time she got to disinfecting it, so she didn't bother with stitches.

"Gimme a second, OK?" she asked, tilting her head toward the other patrons; sounds of distress and pain surrounded them, and Claire was already moving toward them by the time he'd nodded his assent.

He waited for her as she moved around the diner, checking to see who needed help. No one had been shot, thankfully – it had been a warning, and they'd gotten lucky. There were a few cuts and scrapes, but those were easily handled with a first-aid kit and a few jokes to cut the tension.

It wasn't long before they were on their way down the street.

"I don't know how to keep you safe," he said finally as they walked.

"It's not your job to keep me safe," she replied, casting a sidelong glance up at him. He scowled at her, his jaw going tight.

"Then whose job is it?" he asked, looking back at her.

"Mine, last time I checked, seeing as I'm a grown-ass woman responsible for her own decisions and actions," she replied.

"Last time I checked, soulmates at least tried to look out for each other," he said. She cast a glance up at him, lips pursed.

"So does that mean the next time you disappear for three days, you're gonna run it by me first?"

He huffed a breath, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm not tryin' to pick a fight with you, Claire."

She took a breath, looking forward as they walked.

"Yeah, I know," she said finally, exhaling heavily. "Fuck, why can't anything about this be easy?"

He licked his lips.

"I'm with somebody."

Anyone else might have missed it, but he caught the slight irregularity in her step, the almost-trip, the glance up at him and the set of her jaw.

"OK," she said, after a few seconds. "Me too."

He did not skip a step. He didn't skip a beat. He kept walking, his gaze stonily ahead as irrational, blade-sharp red flooded his brain.

Of course she was with somebody. She was an adult, and adults had adult relationships. They got romantically involved. They dated. This was a thing that normal people did. He'd done it, when he was normal. And even now that he wasn't normal, he was with Steve, because this was a thing that even not-normal people did, he guessed.

But Claire was supposed to be _his_.

It was the first time the thought had occurred to him in that context – in a sense of possessiveness, of jealousy.

 _Fuck._

"… so how long?" she was asking.

"What?" he asked, casting a glance at her.

"How long have you been…" she let it trail off, he guessed to let him fill in the blanks.

"Just a few months," he said. She wet her lips and nodded, looking ahead.

They walked in silence for a while. He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know. It was better if he didn't know.

"What about you?" he asked.

He couldn't stand not knowing.

"Same-ish," she said; she sounded casual, guarded.

A few more beats of silence.

"He a good guy?" he asked. "Treat you OK?"

She half-smiled, looking off into the distance.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah he is, and yeah he does. What about yours? Is it good? Serious?"

He nodded.

"Yeah, it's good. And… serious."

"So… so maybe this is one of those platonic things. Maybe we're just… connected, but it's not sex or love or romance or whatever," she posited. He thought he read some kind of tentative relief in her voice, in her face, in her posture.

"Maybe," he said evenly.

Maybe. Except he was dreaming of her, and sometimes it was her smile, or her laugh, or the furrow of her brow when she was digging her heels in and telling him off. But sometimes it was the scent of her hair, the softness of her skin. Sometimes it was her twined around him, him rocking or rolling or slamming into her and the exact sound of her coming, sometimes a crashing bellow, sometimes quiet, breathy cries, and usually the look of her afterwards, a smile he hadn't seen in person, hooded eyes telling secrets only she knew.

Fuck.

Her hand had slipped into his, and he almost stopped short at the contact, at the feel of her slender fingers sliding between his broader ones, so different than Steve's. He wasn't sure what to do, so he gave her hand a light squeeze as she stroked her thumb over the back of his.

"We can take care of each other," she said, looking at him again. "I mean, we can do our best, right? We have to keep doing what we're doing, but we can watch out for each other. Stay in touch. Not disappear, right?"

His smile was slight and subtle and a little wry as he nodded.

"I'm not that great at not disappearing," he said.

"Well, you're gonna have to work on that, cabrón," she said firmly. "I'm not tryna have an aneurysm worrying about you when I have all this other shit to deal with already."

He huffed what might have been a laugh through is nose.

"Does that mean you're gonna try to steer clear of drive-bys and warzones?"

"No," she replied. "But I'll try not to be a dumbass about taking risks if you do."

He smirked.

"I guess I can try that."

"Good," she said, giving him a smile that wasn't like the one in his dream, but was more earnest, more genuine than any he'd seen before from her. It set something off in him, melted something maybe, warmed something.

Fuck.

Notes: Next: Claire and Misty, and maybe some plot advancement!

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	12. tryna place a name on what it's called

Chapter 12: trying to place a name on what it's called

 **Summary:** In which Claire dreams and Misty drops some info on what the hell is happening in New York right now.

 **Notes:** Chapter title from "Say Aha" by Santigold.

Hey y'all! So updates are going to slow down just a touch - I know I was rocking out pretty much a chapter a day for a while there, but the next couple of weeks (possibly months :/) at work are going to be kinda bananas, so updates will be coming more like every two or three days moving forward.

The good news is, this gives me time to do some good editing and produce higher quality stuff!

* * *

He was all hard lines and lean bulk – bulkier than Matt, but not as broad and thick as Luke.

But his identity was never a mystery in the dreams.

In the dreams, she knew the feel of him above, below, next to her by heart, as though he'd been inside her a thousand times; he traced his hands along her like he knew exactly where every nerve ending would spark up, and like he wanted to memorize every slope and curve of her body.

In the dreams, sometimes she kissed him, sometimes he kissed her. But his mouth was always softer than she expected, and his kisses more heated, more passionate; like he'd never known what to do with his emotions until he touched another person – until he touched her.

(Later, after she'd awakened, she would remind herself how deeply unhealthy that impression seemed. It made her cautious, gave her second thoughts, made her want to keep her distance. Mostly.)

But in her dreams, she arched toward his hands, ran her hands over him, slid slim fingers over his skin, his _vibranium_ arm, between his legs, and grinned as he gasped against her mouth, as she gripped him, stroked him –

The screech of her alarm seemed to give no shits about her dreams, and they lingered in the corners of her psyche as she pushed herself out of bed, got into the shower, leaned against the tile.

There was a reason why in action movies you always saw the two leads falling on top of each other, dragging each other out of danger, pressing each other against walls and floors and shielding each other's bodies. For Claire, there wasn't much sexy about being saved. Calling it routine wouldn't be right, but the messy logistics of actually being in a life-threatening situation were not super glamorous.

However, being pressed up close against somebody did give you a pretty good idea of the way your bodies fit together, the strength and feel of their frame against yours, and the way they moved.

As she washed her hair, she tried to figure out how damaged it made her that she was using moments of mortal danger as apparent test runs for future fucks.

Jesus Christ.

Shaking her head, she finished in the shower, pushing herself to regain her focus.

She was meeting Misty at the clinic today – well, Misty was meeting her. There were a few people she needed to interview, and she wanted to talk to Claire about what kind of shape they were in before that.

She left the coffee on for her mom, who was just starting to stir, along with a note and a brown paper bag housing an everything bagel toasted with cream cheese.

That done, she made her way to the clinic, walking at her typical fast clip.

She banished thoughts of Bucky Barnes as she got to work – that was easy enough. When she was working, Claire had singular focus, and no matter what else had happened, nothing was able to break her concentration on her patients.

It didn't help that there were more every day, but that was life.

A little before noon, when Claire went into the back room to top off her now-cold coffee and take a long swig of it, she was greeted with a familiar voice she could hear the grin in.

"Working hard, girl?"

The smile on Claire's face might have been weary, but it was broad and genuine.

"Look who's talkin'," she said, reaching out to pull Misty into a hug, kissing her cheek. "You decided you were gonna stop for a coffee break before you got to work? Where's your donut?"

Misty smirked and shook her head.

"This bitch," she said without heat. "I figured it'd be about time for you to refuel, and I didn't want to spook any of your patients by just diving into interrogation time."

"Fair," Claire said, stirring the dark contents of her cup. "Coffee?"

"Yeah, actually," Misty said with a rueful smile. "It was a long night, and it's been a long day already."

"I bet," she said as she poured another cup. "What's going on? Any news?"

"Yeah, actually," Misty replied, reaching for the creamer. "Seems like the Avengers are bein' a little more forthcoming than they have in the past."

She cast a look at Claire. "Got a visit from the Black Widow."

"No shit," Claire said, eyebrows rising.

"No shit," Misty replied as she poured a little cream into her coffee. "That girl is fine. Can see where she gets the name, though."

"Yeah?" Claire said passing Misty a stirrer.

"Yeah. You know, I can see the 'mates then kills' vibe. Nice though. Helpful." Misty took the stirrer and mixed up the coffee. "Anyway, seems like this whoever this is is after the Soul Gem; been after it for a while, but was playing a long game. They're getting closer, though, and as they do, they're getting sloppier."

Claire scowled. "I guess getting sloppier means they're getting less worried about casualties?"

Misty nodded, sipping her coffee. "That's one of the things it means. The Widow said they don't know if they're a mutant or an Inhuman or what, but seems like one of the things they've figured out is taking people over. Team Superhero thinks this clown actually may have figured out a way to tap into the Soul Gem from a distance."

Claire dragged a hand through her hair, taking a sip of her own coffee, making a face, then topping off the cup. "I think I liked it better when I had no idea all these cosmic forces were constantly in danger of ending the world."

"I heard that," Misty said, shaking her head. "'Cause it looks like Team Evil might get the gem. Widow says Stark and all of them aren't sure what for yet; I don't think they even really know what it does. So we're gonna help 'em look for leads by asking people in the 'hood."

Claire took a sip of her coffee.

"That safe?" she asked, watching Misty. In return, she got a smile.

"Well, I'm not exactly in this work for the safety, girl."

Claire heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I know, mama. I'm actually real surprised they told you as much as they did; seems like every time there's been some kind of invasion or disaster or crisis, all the regular people are in the dark, then we all get caught with our pants down."

"Yeah," Misty nodded. "I think after what's been going on the past week, they're trying do better about getting out in front of shit like this. Makes their jobs easier if they've got cops on their side, and if people in the neighborhoods at least know enough to get the hell out of the way. Expect to see people heading out of the city if they can, though."

Misty gave her a sidelong glance as she took a long drink from her coffee.

Claire arched a brow at her.

"Not you, too," she said, pursing her lips. Misty canted her head to one side and held her hands up, coffee aloft.

"I know, I know, you grown," she said. "Be easy, I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life. Just sayin', it's probably gonna get pretty ugly out here, might not be a bad time to visit friends in Jersey."

Claire just kept her lips pursed, giving her side eye. Misty laughed.

"Girl, I know."

"If you know, then why even say it? If anything, this would be the worst time for anybody with medical training to leave the city."

Misty gave her a wry half-smile. "Because I got it in my head that it's my job to protect people, especially ones without guns or badges or super powers."

Claire returned her smile in kind, then, and slid her arm through the crook of Misty's.

"Well, it's my job to make sure people, especially ones with guns or badges or superpowers, don't bleed out, so you don't want me going to Jersey for this," she said.

Misty grinned. "I mean, nobody does know how to tie off a stitch like you, girl."

Claire nodded firmly, sipping her coffee.

"You damn right."

* * *

 **Notes:** Next up: I have a couple of chapters in the works, but I'm not totally sure of what order I'm posting them in . LOL 3

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	13. ghost in the photograph

Chapter 13: ghosts in the photograph 

Summary: Bucky and Natasha have a heart to heart... or something.

Notes: Title from "Take Me Somewhere Nice" by Mogwai

* * *

He hit the floor with all the momentum he'd previously been directing into the last punch he'd thrown; he rolled into a crouch, looking up darkly through his hair, jaw set.

"He's giving you your space, you know," Natasha said as she aimed a graceful kick at his head.

"What?" he asked as he caught her leg with one hand, twisting, shifting, but she shifted with him, moving into a handstand for leverage, kicking him with her other leg. He released her with a grunt and moved out of her reach. For the moment.

"Steve," she said, righting herself, then assuming her fighting stance anew, gesturing for him to come at her. "He's giving you your space."

Bucky's jaw went tight again.

"He talked to you?" he asked as he threw a punch at her.

Natasha smiled as she dodged and blocked, her ponytail a stream of red behind her. He threw another; another. Dodge; dodge.

"Not yet," she replied, throwing a punch at him now. Dodge; he grabbed her arm. "But I have eyes. And I know Steve."

She twisted free and kicked at the side of his knee. It connected; his lips went thin and he went down, sweeping at her leg with his arm.

There were questions. Far more than he would ever asked. She flipped out of the way of his arm as he got up and advanced on her, throwing another series of punches at her.

"You should talk to him," she said, dodging each one.

"Nothing to talk about," he replied, continuing his attack, relentless. "Also, none of your business."

She tilted her head to one side this time as she dodged, her body seeming to flow out of his way like silk in a breeze.

"You're right," she agreed, bending into a handspring, catching his neck between her legs and flipping them both. "But he's trying to do the right thing. So you should, too."

He rolled into the flip, shifting his weight so she was on her back, his vibranium arm at her throat, her legs still around his neck.

"What makes you think I'm not?" he asked.

"Because you're brooding like the hero in a Bronte novel," she said, releasing his neck, letting her legs rest on his shoulders. He shook his head and got up, offering her a hand. She took it.

"There are no heroes in Bronte novels," he said as he pulled her up.

"Exactly," she said. "Don't ruin a good thing with self-loathing."

He shook his head. "It's not self-loathing," he said.

"What is it, then?" she asked, watching him. He looked back at her for a long moment.

"I met my soulmate."

Her eyes only widened slightly; it would have gone unnoticed by most. There was only half a beat before she asked,

"Is that why you asked me to go talk to the woman at the Twelfth Precinct?"

He looked at her silently.

"Of course it was," she said, exhaling softly. "So you told Steve."

He gave her another look, this one more expectant.

"Well, that's something," she said, walking over to the parallel bars. "What're they like?"

He walked over to the speed bag.

"Difficult," he replied. Natasha laughed.

"Of course they are," she said as she dusted her hands in a tub of chalk. He looked at her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked as he started wrapping his flesh hand.

"Nothing," she replied as she jumped up to grip the lower bar.

He was silent for a few moments, his eyes narrow as she began swinging, gaining momentum.

"Romanov," he said.

"Barnes," she replied as she went over the bar.

"What do you mean, 'of course they are'?" he asked, watching her.

She was in a handstand on the bar, ponytail hanging down, facing away from him.

She sighed. Swung down, legs in a split. Up again. Handstand.

"Barnes, have you ever wondered why Steve isn't your soulmate?" she asked, crossing one hand over the other, then turning so she was facing him.

He looked at her, again, in silence. She hummed knowingly.

"Is Steve 'difficult'?" she asked, flipping her head so her ponytail hung down behind her properly.

"Not like her," he said, still watching her.

Natasha did the closest thing to a shrug she could in her current position before swinging again; down – up – down – up again.

"So what, I'm not good enough for Steve?" he said, an edge creeping into his tone.

"That's not what I said," she replied as she released the lower bar and caught the higher one, swinging.

"Then what are you saying, Romanov?" he said, his hands curling into fists.

It could have just been an expulsion of air from the exertion – but it sure sounded like a sigh. She flipped over the bar once, twice, three times before she released the bar, planting a solid landing.

"Just that you've never struck me as the type of guy who likes things too easy," she said over her shoulder, flipping her ponytail out of her face.

He watched her as she got a towel and started patting her face.

"Don't be so defensive, Barnes," she said, watching him. "Just get it figured out before you hurt him."

Jaw set, lips tight, he looked at her for a moment before stalking past her and out of the gym.

* * *

Notes: Uh, so I definitely did not even know I was going to write that chapter until it happened. LOL Next chapter will be things! Probably plotty things. In fact, almost definitely plotty things. . Thank you for reading! :D 3 Notes: As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	14. another scar may bless you

**Chapter 14: another scar may bless you**

Summary:

In which there is some hurt, comfort, we see another aspect of the soul bond, and maybe a touch of plot? what?

Notes:

Title from "The Greatest" by Sia feat. Kendrick Lamar

I'm so sorry for the delay, guys – the past two weeks have been fraught with one of the busiest times of year at my job, in addition to an unexpected family emergency to combine into a Voltron of personal and professional urgency that ate up literally all of my free time.

The good news is, things should be WAY more chill in the upcoming weeks, so I'll hopefully get back to a regular writing/updating schedule!

Hopefully the length of this update (over 2200 words! Wat?) makes up a little for how long it took to appear.

Thanks for your patience, your comments, and as always, for reading!

* * *

It wasn't often that Claire _wasn't_ in a rush.

The pace at which she walked was usually faster and more urgent than could be called "brisk," but it definitely didn't qualify as a run.

Even so, tourists and slow walkers weren't so much frustrations as obstacles to be dodged around or brushed past; she kept her earbuds in her ear, and it wasn't until she got down the subway steps (never holding the railing, boots thumping staccato) and to the turnstyle that she slowed down, and that was only because her monthly Metrocard had expired, and she had to pull aside to dig the new one out of her bag.

It was while she was doing this that a man approached her. The music in her ears was enough of an excuse to pretend she didn't notice him, although just the fact that he was just standing in front of her, close enough to touch her, was enough to put her on edge. There was no one else in the station right now – at least not right here, by the machines.

Fuck.

She dug her card out of her bag, her heart rate only accelerating slightly, and moved to go back to the turnstyle, but he stepped into her way.

He was slight enough, only a little taller than she was, but he was wiry, and there was something hungry about him that made her want to avoid confrontation and just slide past.

But he had her cornered, so she looked him in the face, dead-eyed, expectant.

"Can I help you?"

He smiled at her, something feverish in his eyes. He reached out for her hand, and though she moved, he followed, grasping her wrist, his thumb on her pulse. His grip was tight as she tried to pull away.

Normally, by now, she'd have slid out of his hands, stomped on his foot, and possibly kneed him in the groin for good measure – but his touch seemed to electrocute her, a stab of energy shooting through her skin, straight from her pulse point to her soulmark.

She was out of breath, choking, like trying to breathe in through plastic. Her eyes were wide, and the guy just kept smiling, gripping her wrist tighter before releasing her with a little push, then calmly going through the turnstyle and disappearing down the hall to the platform.

Claire, for her part, was gasping for air, pressed back against the Metrocard machine, gripping the side of it with one hand while the other clutched at her throat. Her wrist ached, as did her thigh, her pulse savagely pounding in her throat, her heart, her wrists, everywhere.

She still couldn't make a sound, and despite everything she knew about the subway, shock, and first responding, she couldn't do a damn thing but slide down the front of the machine onto the floor, fumbling in her pocket until she found her phone.

Bucky felt the jolt out of nowhere. He was training – or maybe more honestly, "getting out his aggression in a more productive way," as Nat had suggested to him. He was in the process of productively demolishing a punching bag when he felt that stab of pain first in his wrist, then in his soulmark.

The knowledge of something being wrong – very wrong – overwhelmed him, and it was only as long as it took to get his phone, read the message there, and tap a few keys on it before he was bolting out the door.

He found Claire at that subway station about ten minutes later. When she saw him, the relief that welled in her eyes almost overwhelmed him, but not nearly so much as when she stumbled to her feet and went to him, throwing her arms around him, her fingers digging into him as though the world was ending and they were the only things left in it.

He found himself closing his arms as tightly around her – so tightly that he had to remind himself to be easy; he was likely to crack her ribs. But he buried his hand in her hair, cradling her head, pressing her close, breathing her in, something desperate and irrational and terrified in him, his breath ragged as she buried her face in the crook of his neck, catching her breath. It took him a minute to even hear her speaking, muted, muffled, and hoarse as her voice was – it was another before he understood the mantra.

"You're OK," she kept saying. "You're OK."

"I'm OK," he said into her hair, nodding. "I'm here; I'm OK."

The fact that she seemed whole, at least mostly OK, was the only thing that let him speak

She wouldn't let him carry her out of the subway station, even though it would have made things a lot quicker. She was still unsteady, and seemed to be favoring one leg over the other. Beyond that, he would have felt better having her that close to him, physically – though to be honest, it helped that she had his hand in something close to a death grip that she didn't seem willing to release at any point soon. It was reassuring to feel her hand in his, even cold as it was. When he asked her where she wanted to go, she looked at him with such lost weariness that he didn't know what to do.

"I wanna go home, Barnes," she said raspily. "But I can't – my mom – I can't. It's –"

She swallowed, shaking her head, raking her free hand through her hair.

"C'mon," he said, tugging her hand.


	15. stung by a star seed

**Chapter 15: stung by a star seed**

 **Summary:** In which Bucky and Claire have a moment.

 **Notes:** Title from "I Never Learn" by Lykke Li.

So this ended up being much longer than it was originally because I took a couple of days after writing it to look at it with fresh eyes, edit, and revise, and I feel like this is a thing I should always do, because it's definitely stronger than it would have been.

BUT ALSO I LIKE INSTANT GRATIFICATION SO IT'S HARD.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Stark Tower was the most excessive display of American oligarchical wealth that Claire had ever seen up close, and now she was _inside it_.

Under different circumstances, she'd have had a lot to say about whose backs this tower had been built on, about how no one person actually needed this much money, about how many people in hoods more like hers than this place died so the Stark name could be seen from Brooklyn, and how it was basically a monument to the "haves" having and getting more and more while the "have nots" got the same as they always did – shit.

But on her best day, she was usually too occupied with the business of working and living to say any of that out loud, instead allowing side eye and pursed lips to speak it for her. Today, though, her entire nervous system felt like it had been set on fire and then put out with rubbing alcohol. The only thing she could focus on was Bucky's hand and the way that physical contact made the rest of her body feel less like it had been twisted in a giant Charlie horse while being electrocuted.

They got looks, and later, she would recognize some of the faces – Falcon, War Machine – and there were others she didn't know: a stunning redhead and a pretty, haunted-looking brunette. No one stopped them, though, and Bucky kept moving with purpose, eyes straight ahead as they walked down the hall until they got to a suite of rooms.

It looked like it was supposed to be a place for someone to live, but only in the most literal sense of the word, she guessed: a spacious living room that seemed unused, an open door that looked like it led to a bedroom, another door that led to what was probably a bathroom – she didn't know what else. But it looked bare, blank, institutional.

In this strange, twisted state she found herself in, the thought occurred to her that it reflected exactly what she thought Bucky was when she met him. His empty eyes, his expressionless face, the economy of movement. It was funny to think of that now – and she couldn't have said when it started to change. Maybe it was the bond, maybe she'd been paying closer attention, or maybe she was learning him a little. Maybe he was starting to be different with her?

That didn't seem likely. It was crazy, all these thoughts – she didn't know when he became human to her, but what she did know was that when Bucky led her to the couch, still not releasing her hand, and sat, she followed suit. And then, as if out of muscle memory that didn't really exist, or maybe out of instinct, she put her head on his shoulder and her arm around him. She felt him tense under her, and normally that would be enough for her to back off. Claire understood body language almost better than the spoken kind; it kind of came with the job. But somehow, she just couldn't make herself move, and Bucky seemed to relax slightly. Maybe.

Suddenly, she realized tears had welled in her eyes, and she wiped at them ruthlessly even as she turned her face into his shoulder.

She didn't know if sobs could be called that if they were silent, but her chest and shoulders heaved and she shook, her fingers curled in his shirt. He didn't say anything, thank Christ, but eventually, she didn't know after how long, he put an arm tentatively around her. It was then that her fingers uncurled from his shirt to slide up to his neck, over his pulse, to be reassured by the steady thump of it against her skin.

Her breath was still ragged, but she turned her head, still on his shoulder. After a little more time, his hand was carding gingerly through her hair, as though he was unsure if that was what he should be doing, but he wanted to do _something_.

The thought curled her lips into the closest thing to a smile she'd be getting at this point – which wasn't very close.

When her heartrate had slowed to its normal pace, and her breathing had evened out, his hand still stroking her hair, he asked,

"What happened?"

"I don't know," she said quietly, her voice still a rasp, a rattle in her throat. She cleared it; removed her hand from his neck only to reach into her bag for her water bottle, and worked on taking a drink from it one-handed. He helped her, flipping the top for her. Once she took a sip, she pressed it into his hand, and he looked at it for a moment.

"I know you're a super soldier," she said, her voice sounding closer to normal, now. "But you still need to hydrate."

He gave her the slightest smirk and took a long sip before handing it back to her. She held it, but settled back into him.

"This guy," she said. "This guy came up to me; he grabbed my wrist, and I just – I don't know. I don't know. I swear to fuckin' God, I have never been that scared in my life, Barnes; it was like – I don't understand it. It was pain, but it was also like you were in pain, or something? It was like you were being tortured or hurt, or he was trying to cut the connection, or – I don't know. Trying to penetrate it. Stretching it, or – it hurt. It felt… _wrong_. I just don't fucking know, but it was the scariest goddamn thing that has ever happened to me."

As she spoke, he tensed against her. The fact that someone had hurt her – and tried to hurt her through _him_ – led immediately to the cold assessment of how to neutralize the threat. The calculus of locating and terminating the one who'd attacked her was swift, though not devoid of emotion the way this thought process had been so many times in the past.

There was something else, though. He kept stroking her hair, because – could he feel her need for it? It didn't feel like his own. Touch – the kind that meant warmth, or affection, or comfort – was still a work in progress for Bucky. On one level, he felt like this – holding each other, tracing his fingers along her hair – must be awkward, it had to be awkward. They weren't lovers, they weren't even really friends, what kinda sense did it make that they were being this close, this intimate? And it was intimate. That much he knew, and that was –

They didn't touch each other, that wasn't a thing they did.

But she touched other people – that was a thing most people did, he thought. He didn't remember it clearly – he knew that he used to be affectionate, especially with girls. Dames. Women. Now and then he remembered flashes of appreciating the scents, the textures, the shapes of them. Not even sex, though that had been good, too – but just touch. Holding hands. Hugging. Kissing.

He and Steve touched each other, but it had taken a long time. There was also something about the transition from fighting to fucking with Steve that made a certain kind of sense. Something about rhythm, about impact, about full contact that he hadn't had to think that hard about, even though when they were together, it wasn't a fight.

Well, it wasn't always a fight. And when it was, it wasn't the bad kind.

But that was something different. That was still adrenaline and fight-flight-fuck and bone-cracking intensity.

Touch – this kind of touch, was a different thing, and he wasn't good at it, or at least he didn't remember how to be good at it, but at the same time something in him – maybe this soulbond, maybe instinct, maybe recall, he didn't know, maybe would never know – guided him. Claire guided him, too, but there was also muscle memory and something else, something deeper, something that felt right when he was close to her.

Touch was something to be manipulated – pain was a tool, for him and for others, and touch could produce pain on all kinds of levels. Pleasure, he'd been rediscovering with Steve, was sort of a flipside of pain, connected or mirrored or equal and opposite – it wasn't always clear.

This was different though. This touch was – comfort. Solace. Healing.

Steve did this sometimes, and he knew it was important to him, so he tried to be in it, sometimes even to return it, but he usually felt like a monkey copying a human to get a reward.

This was different.

As it was happening, there was no real question to it – it was like breathing, or their blood pumping. It was almost as though it was a thing their bodies were doing as a matter of course, without need for or interest in their thoughts on the subject. He wasn't sure that he could have let her go unless she'd told him to, but it seemed like it was as natural to her as it was to him; it wasn't like him to assume that, but it just… felt like that.

But what she was saying was important, and even as he considered the physical connection between them, he listened to her, his mind continued calculating how to find whoever had done this, to remove the threat, to protect them and this.

He had to protect _this_.

He asked her the questions that needed asking – if she knew the guy, what she remembered about his appearance, height, weight. Had he followed her? Said anything? Anything?

After she'd answered as many questions as she could, still holding him, still being held by him, she exhaled a shuddering breath.

"It's really fucking weird," she said quietly. "My memory feels, like – obscenely clear, but some things feel – I don't know. Like I don't even know how I sent you that text, I don't know how I told you I was at 125th. I honestly don't even feel like I remember that now."

He exhaled softly, looking at her.

"You should stay here."

He expected her to recoil immediately, maybe call him a foul word in Spanish, then tell him all the reasons that was not only a bad idea, but all the things that she had going on uptown that made it impossible.

But she didn't. Her fingers curled in his shirt and she looked down.

"I have work. I have my family. My life is in Harlem."

Well, one out of three wasn't bad.

He was silent for a long while as they sat there together before he responded.

"I get it," he said quietly. "But if this guy is coming after you specifically, you could be putting your family or your patients at risk."

She looked up at him, pulling back slightly.

"That's not fair," she said. "We don't know that he was coming specifically for me. For all we know, this could have been random."

"Is that a risk you're willing to take?" he asked evenly.

"Uh, I don't know," she said, pulling more fully away, now, but something twinged in both of them as she did. "But I know I can't cancel my life while we figure it out."

He sighed, pressing his lips together, jaw tight. Reluctantly, she settled back against him, lips pursed, brow furrowed.

"Maybe just for tonight, then. At least until whatever this is –" he motioned to them with one hand – "eases up a little."

She was quiet for a while. There was a soft, almost inaudible exhalation of breath.

"OK," she said finally. "Just for tonight."

He didn't smile, but the set of his jaw softened slightly, and he stroked her hair, resisting the unexpected urge to press a kiss to her crown. But only just barely.

* * *

 **Notes:** So... yeah, that might have gotten a little schmoopy at the tail end there, but they are going through some business right now! :D Up next, Claire's presence at the tower is Noticed...

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	16. like breathing was easy

**Chapter 16 – like breathing was easy**

 **Notes:** So, I found this amazeballs forum post that has ALL THIS INFO about Stark Tower when I was looking for floorplans, and it turns out that rather than downtown (I hadn't been paying attention and had just assumed that it was in the Financial District), the Avengers nee Stark Tower is actually on the East Side in Turtle Bay. (200 E 45th Street, to be exact.)

Maybe someday I'll go back and fix any little wrong-headed references I may have made to the location, but for now, I'm just going to move forward with that knowledge. It shouldn't change much – it's still a pretty super-posh neighborhood, and though you'd probably have a better view of it from Queens, you could still feasibly see the tower from a number of points in Brooklyn. /NYC nerd ramble.

* * *

Some girls might have called him a gentleman, but Claire got the sense that really, Bucky Barnes was so concerned with function and efficiency that it wouldn't have occurred to him to try anything shady.

But when she fell asleep against him, drained and half-coherent, he could have left her there on the sofa. Instead, she'd woken up in his bed, in the dark, her shoes off, the rest of her clothes on, under the covers. There'd been dreams – half-remembered fantasies too good to be true of Luke, of Matt, but mainly of them melting away to reveal Bucky Barnes – Bucky Barnes, who in her dreams, at least, had been programmed to be at least as good in bed as he was at being a soldier.

Jesus Christ, _somebody_ was long overdue to get laid.

Waking up was disorienting – at first, she didn't know where she was, though the smell of him on the sheets was a strange kind of comfort that had her curling into the other pillow on the bed for just a second.

Only for that second, though. She didn't give herself much time before she was sitting up, raking a hand through her hair, calling in a little bit of a croak,

"Barnes?"

No answer.

She got up, padded out of the room, looked around only to find the apartment empty. What she also found was a note on the kitchen table that read, in the same neat handwriting that curled briefly across that bit of her upper thigh:

 _Training. Wait here. Back soon._

Her eyes narrowed at the note, which was about as taciturn as she could have expected. There were a few problems with all this:

one – Claire's total lack of inclination to do as she was told.

two – Claire being left alone in this _Lifestyles of the Unconscionably Rich and Famous_ tower that she wasn't totally sure how she got into, and definitely didn't immediately know how to get out of.

three – Claire was hungry as fuck, an issue that needed to be resolved immediately – and she was pretty sure Seamless wouldn't be getting past security any time soon.

So there were some steps to be taken. She found her bag, which she kept a toothbrush and toothpaste in because she spent too many hours out of the house not to. Next she found the bathroom – which, like the rest of the suite, had only the bare essentials – and made herself feel a little more human.

Then she left.

Not the tower – not that she wasn't thinking about it, but that was a hurdle to be tackled after breakfast.

But she committed to leaving of Barnes' apartment – she guessed that what it was – when she found literally nothing to eat at all. Not a candy bar, not a protein shake, not even an MRE. There wasn't even a bottle of water.

Her bag was hung on a hook by the door, and though she usually kept a protein bar in it given the hours she was used to working, she'd eaten that sometime yesterday. So after pulling her boots and coat on, her thigh only twinging slightly, she grabbed it to leave.

It took her a second to work the locks out, but once she did, she checked behind her as she walked out to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, only to walk into the most solid obstacle she'd encountered since she'd gotten here.

"Shit," she said before she'd looked up. "Sorry, I –"

She blinked up at the brick wall of a human being in front of her – who had caught her by the arms with a really absurd combination of gentleness and strength, steadying her.

Captain Motherfucking America. Right.

"Good morning," he said with a rueful half-smile. "You must be Claire."

He was infuckinghumanly beautiful. She literally could not speak for a second – or at the very least, she couldn't think of a damn thing to say or do other than blink up at him with her lips slightly parted and her eyes wide. His smile – that _particular_ smile – so guileless, a little sheepish, and impossibly fucking charming – made it worse. Who even looked like that? He was from _Brooklyn_? Guys like this didn't come from Brooklyn. They didn't come from anywhere.

Though she guessed they did seventy years ago, maybe.

Jesus Christ.

"It's nice to meet you," he said, extending his hand to her as though she wasn't just standing there, gaping at him with a level of fangirl bullshit that did not make any kind of sense. She'd dealt with enhanced humans, or specials, or whatever the hell they were. This was a thing she did all the time. She'd dated them. She'd fucked them. She'd told them about themselves and gotten impatient with them and smacked them and told them to sit the hell down when they'd tried to get up too soon after she'd finished stitching them up.

And then she realized her soulmark was tingling or pulsing or doing _something_ that her upper thigh had no business doing in these circumstances.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

She put her hand in his and a freight train frisson roared through her body with the mark at the epicenter.

"You've got to be fuckin' kidding me," she said, her head dropping back as her she huffed her disbelief.

"Pardon?" he said politely, releasing her hand. Then she looked at him, inhaling deeply, then exhaling with resignation.

"So – not to make this even weirder than it already is, but… are you my soulmate's boyfriend?"

* * *

 **Notes:** So that happened.

As always, thanks so much for reading; for more stuff, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	17. so then there I am, the caretaker of sin

**Chapter 17: so then there I am, the caretaker of sin**

 **Summary:**

In which Steve and Claire converse.

 **Notes:**

Title from "Would You Fight for My Love?" by Jack White.

I mean really, I keep trying to tell this story what to do, and then it's like "LULZ nope we're doing this instead yay!"

And then I'm like ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

He was _blushing_.

Steve Rogers, Captain Fucking America, puncher of Hitler, savior of the world several times over, was _blushing_.

Even in this situation, it was hard not to laugh.

Almost as hard as not being _endeared_.

"Um… well…"

Stammering. He was one hundred percent stammering.

"Do you want some breakfast? Bucky told me you were here, and… I mean, we don't really have to eat or sleep that much, and with everything… you know, he doesn't keep much around."

Claire canted her head slightly to one side.

"You're actually for real, aren't you?" she asked.

He gave her another rueful half-smile.

"'Fraid so," he said. She shook her head, returning his smile, though hers was considerably more sardonic.

"Well, I'm definitely not one to turn down a free meal," she said. "Let's go."

He gave her a half-grin at that and motioned down the hallway in what she'd discover was the direction of the elevator. As she cast glances at the doors and windows, he noticed and said,

"This is kind of a… guest floor," he supplied. "Bucky... he was more comfortable with a smaller space."

"So is he an Avenger now?" she asked, looking at him.

Another half-smile as he pressed the button for the elevator and the doors slid open.

"I guess you could say we're working on that."

Claire canted her head to one side; he motioned for her to enter the elevator with an "after you" gesture, and she did.

"What does that mean?" she asked as he pressed a button for a lower floor.

"Well… how much do you know about Bucky's history?" he asked, looking at her. She wrinkled her nose slightly and replied,

"That he was sort of Russia's answer to you?" she said. Captain America – Steve – winced.

"It's a little more complicated than that."

The doors to the elevator slid open, and while Steve cooked a simple but pretty well-executed breakfast of bacon and eggs and Claire figured out toast and coffee to make herself useful, Steve broke down the super-condensed version of Bucky's life so far (which was still pretty long).

Near-death experience; losing an arm; brainwashing; torture; Soviet assassin; cryogenic stasis.

More than once, Claire's hands went tight around the coffee pot, or a mug, or the edge of the counter. She wet her lips. By the time Steve had gotten to the present day, Claire had lost her appetite – though she was wishing hard that there was some whiskey in her coffee. It was a long while before she spoke.

"So, basically, he has PTSD on steroids," she said finally.

Steve nodded grimly.

"You could say that," he confirmed.

"Nightmares? Mood swings?" she asked. He looked a little uncomfortable as he set her plate in front of her.

"Yeah," he replied finally. "It feels kind of… weird to tell somebody all this, but…"

"But you want me to know what I'm getting into," she said, casting a glance at him.

"Yeah," he said with a nod as he sat down. She gave him a thoughtful look.

"Are you trying to scare me off?" she asked. He looked genuinely surprised by the question.

"No," he said. "No. It's just – this is stuff the people who are around Bucky most all know. And – I don't think he'd ever hurt you, but – you're his soulmate, and whatever that means, it's just…"

She gave him a wry half-smile.

"You're just like, a really genuinely good guy, aren't you?" she asked.

"That's what they tell me," he said with a sheepish sort of shrug.

She raked a hand through her hair, taking a long drink of coffee. When she set her mug down, she said,

"So, you're OK with all this soulmate stuff?" she asked.

"I mean, it's hard," he said as he forked up some eggs. "I love Bucky. But… the soulmate thing, it's… whatever it is, it's important. It's a part of him, it's important to him. You're important to him."

Claire arched a brow and looked at him.

"He doesn't even know me," she said.

"So does that mean he's not important to you?" he countered, arching a brow right back.

Claire pursed her lips, giving him a look, not answering as she took a drink of coffee. He waited, expectant.

"I don't know him, either," she evaded. His brow stayed arched.

"You always this scared to let people in?" he asked.

"I'm not scared," she retorted immediately. He just looked at her.

"I'm _not_ ," she insisted.

"OK, so you're not scared," he allowed. "But you're trying to tell me that your soulmate isn't important to you?"

She made a face, taking another drink of coffee.

"I don't understand why you want him to be important to me," she said. "He's your boyfriend. Aren't you scared I'm gonna steal him away from you?"

There was that half-smile again.

"To be honest, Claire, I don't think anybody can steal Bucky away from me. I don't know if we'll always be… erm… together – "

He was blushing again, and Claire did not understand how a grown-ass man could be so fucking… cute. Grown-ass men weren't cute. But here he was.

"—but even if we're not, Bucky will always be my best friend, and I'll always be his."

"So like brothers?" she asked, arching a brow. More blushing. Under different circumstances, she would have laughed. As it was, she was pushing up on a grin.

"Well – I mean – not exactly –"

"Brothers who sleep together?" she was grinning now. He scowled at her.

"OK, OK, I'm sorry, that was too far. I get it, though," she said. There was something closed-off in his expression now, though, and she sighed.

"Really, I'm sorry," she said, finally, turning the mug in her hands. "I didn't mean to make fun of your connection. I actually really, genuinely get it. I have friends like that. Friends I've slept with that I'll always love, and always be friends with, and hopefully always be close to. This is just…"

She shook her head. "It's kind of a weird situation, you know?"

His expression softened, then, and he nodded.

"Yeah, I guess it's pretty strange for all of us."

"Understatements of the year," she said, taking another sip of coffee. After huffing a breath, she said, "I guess he is important to me. I kind of – I don't want him to be. Or maybe I didn't, and now – I don't know. How is this not a choice that I get to make? To have someone take up this much of my head?"

She huffed a sigh and picked up her fork, pushing a piece of egg around.

Steve gave her a half-grin, then.

"I mean, is that a choice anybody gets to make?" he asked. She arched a brow at him.

"Apparently not," she said. "He's so hot for you I thought I was going to turn into a puddle when I saw you."

Steve's eyes widened as she took a bite of her eggs.

"What – you felt it?"

Claire shook her head as she swallowed.

"Christ, it felt like half of Manhattan should have been able to feel it," she said. "When we shook hands –"

She shook her head again. "It was pretty serious."

Steve was blushing again, which didn't seem to get old at all, but then his expression sobered.

"You know, if you can feel the things he feels… that could be a problem."

She looked at him, lips parting slightly as realization slowly dawned at her. Between the PTSD, the recovery from the brainwashing, the memories of the torture, and who knew what else, Things That Bucky Barnes Felt probably fell somewhere between "root canal with no anesthetic" and "just stab me in the face" on the emotional scale.

When she realized just how literal that scale probably was, she paled, her expression stricken.

"Fuck," she breathed.

Of course, it was at that point that she noticed Bucky standing at the entrance to the kitchen, his jaw tight again.

And what she felt then was definitely not good.

* * *

 **Notes:**

Next: MORE CONFRONTATION

I swear we'll get back to the plot at some point. I swear!

As always, come see me on tumblr something-pithy!


	18. now you're lost and you're lethal

**Chapter 18: now you're lost and you're lethal**

 **Summary:** In which there is a confrontation between Bucky and Claire.

 **Notes:** Title from "Risingson" by Massive Attack. This chapter was - well, I don't know about fun, but definitely enjoyable to write! I hope you enjoy it, too! Thanks so much for reading!

* * *

There was a plummeting feeling that Bucky couldn't help or resist. It was that thing that people talked about, their hearts falling into their stomachs, or the pit dropping out of their stomachs, or something like that.

Finding Claire and Steve talking in the kitchen wasn't a surprise – he'd asked Steve to check in on her, and it made sense that they'd be in the kitchen. It made sense that they'd be in the kitchen. It made sense that they'd be talking about him.

It all made sense.

But there was that drop, that weird, sick feeling when he hadn't been sick in at least seventy years, like his body was rejecting the knowledge that his soulmate knew enough now to be afraid. Which is really a thing that should have happened from the beginning.

He left without waiting; Steve tried to say something, maybe Claire did, too, but talking wasn't what he wanted to do right now. He knew that much.

He was fast, and even if Steve had followed him, he'd give him a run for his money. But it was Claire – he could hear her Manhattan footsteps behind him, and it didn't take many turns to lose her. Soon enough he was on the elevator, back to the fitness room, even though his hair hadn't yet dried from his shower.

Though he was still warming up when Claire found him.

He looked at her.

She was out of breath; her heartrate was elevated, judging by the subtle tick of her pulse in her throat. Pupils slightly dilated.

He watched her, waiting.

"Jesus Christ, Barnes," she said, her breath still not back yet. "Was running really necessary?"

He kept watching.

There was a bench against the wall; she found it and sat on it in a near-sprawl.

"Are you pissed?" she asked, canting her head to one side, watching him.

"No."

His reply was clipped, matter-of-fact.

"Really?" she said, canting her head a little further.

"Really."

Same deadpan.

"You look pissed," she commented.

"I'm not," he replied. "Steve was right to warn you about me. I'm not safe to be around."

Claire huffed a sign and shook her head.

"He wasn't warning me; he was just –"

"Letting you know how and why I'm dangerous."

She gave him a wry, annoyed look.

"He was telling me about you. Which is probably information I should have if this soulbond is going to start letting us feel each other's emotions or whatever."

"Right," he said, his expression impassive, though his jaw was tight.

"Look, this is not about me being afraid – this is about me being prepared. You know, like if you have a flashback or something."

He flexed his fingers, then, his mouth tightening into a line before he approached a punching bag.

"Right," he repeated.

She got up, walking closer to him, though still giving him his distance. She watched him while he started kicking and punching the bag in calculated, swift, brutal moves, so fast it was probably hard to catch each one without enhanced vision.

"So if it's right, why are you bent on demolishing that thing when you just got done with your training for the day?"

He was quiet, taking a breath before he stopped, stilling the bag, then dropping down into a handstand. Then started doing pushups.

He got through about fifty before she spoke again.

"Are you just gonna give me the silent treatment for the rest of my life, then?" she asked. "Like, what the fuck, Barnes, this is shit I need to know."

With something like a growl, he flipped onto his feet.

"Don't you think I know that?" he asked, his voice rising, closer to her than he expected, looming over her. "Do you think I haven't been worried about that since you showed up? Since I started feeling things from the bond?"

She didn't give an inch, looking up at him and meeting his gaze without flinching.

"I really don't know _what_ to think, Barnes, considering you never fucking say anything about it!" she told him, her hands on her hips. "Until we do manage to figure out a psychic connection or whatever, it sure would be helpful as fuck if instead of running away when something comes up, you – oh, I don't know, _communicated_!"

"And what do you think that's gonna solve, exactly?" he demanded. "You think you're gonna come in here, and you and this soulbond are gonna fix me all up? You think you're gonna heal all my wounds?"

She did flinch, then, almost imperceptibly, but it was there, and he saw it.

"Newsflash, Claire, _you can't fix me_." His tone was more even now, more steady, but no less earnest. "I'm not fixable. I am fucked up – not the kind of fucked up people come back from. This bond is gonna make that real clear to you, and I'm sorry for that, but you can't help me. Nobody can help me."

She was pale and quiet, her jaw set, her teeth clenched – but her eyes were on fire.

"That is _bullshit_ , Barnes," she said, poking her finger into his chest. "That is fucking _bullshit_ , and now that we have this bond, you've got no right to just accept that bullshit. When it was just you, fine, if you wanted to live your life a scarred, emotionally stunted parody of a man, that was your choice, and I guess Steve's. But you don't get to decide to give up on yourself when _my_ life is tied up in yours!"

He shook his head, a sneer curling his lip, not backing down from her.

"Yeah, that's what happened. I _decided_ to be this way. I just said, 'you know what, it'd be nice not to have nightmares every night and relive every atrocity I've ever done, every second of torture I've been through, every sin I've committed, but fuck that, I'm just gonna give up and live like _this_ because _that_ sounds like fun!'"

Something flickered in her face, and in the soulbond, too – and though it was hard to identify, through the bond, it lasted longer than a flicker. It was flooding through.

"Who ever said it was easy? Who said that?" there was still ferocity in her voice, but there was that other emotion in it, too – another layer to the adamant timbre, a flow of emotion under it that – he kept _feeling_ it. It was – it was soft, it was sad, it was fluid, and –

"I don't want your pity, Claire," he warned, his voice lowering but losing none of its intensity. "Don't even think it."

"It's not pity," she near-spat, pushing at his chest again. "What, you've lived so long without emotions, you can't even identify them anymore?"

He pushed against the feeling, tried not to let it into his chest, his stomach, but it was like trying to stop a wave with cheesecloth. It soaked into everything – it was overwhelming, powerful, and –

She was right. It wasn't pity. Or maybe – she felt sorry for him, but that wasn't the thing. It was – it was – she felt what he was feeling. She felt bad – so bad – about… not him, what he'd been through? It was like it was reverberating back at him, but different, not as ugly, not as –

"I don't want this," he said, raking a hand through his hair, turning away from her, stalking back toward the punching bag. "I don't need this."

"Well, that's just too bad," she said, following him.

There was anger, too – frustration. He got those, he understood those. But there was something – it was tender, almost, but she was hiding it, both inside and outside.

Jesus, who knew emotions could be this complicated?

"Barnes, you don't –"

"Can I just get a minute?" he snapped, turning to face her again. "I think I've had enough of people forcing their way into my head, don't you?"

She took a step back at that, her eyes flashing. That soft, overwhelmingly warm and gentle emotion was subsumed by something more familiar – Bucky found it easy to identify. Pique, fury, rage – but under it… something else –

Too late. She was talking again.

"You know what?" she snarled. "Fuck you, Barnes."

And with that, she finally turned around and left.

* * *

 **Notes:** Next up: some Misty, some plot, and some other things! Probably another Bechdel failure, but that test gets harder to pass with the way this plot's developing - FORGIVE ME

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	19. it's war and we fighting for inches

**Chapter 19: it's war and we fighting for inches and millimetres**

 **Summary:** In which Claire and Misty talk and cooler heads... well, they're presented, at least, whether or not they prevail.

 **Notes:** Title from "The Killing Season" by A Tribe Called Quest.

My apologies for the delay on this chapter. Even though I already had it written, I still needed to edit and revise it. This past week has been... challenging. If you want to know more about that, you can read about it on my tumblr, something-pithy: post/152967819318/on-tuesdays-in-november

* * *

Now that she'd been up and down the elevator a few times, finding her way out of the building was easy enough.

She barely noticed going through the hallway, the elevator, the overly ostentatious lobby, and out of the building. She barely noticed the walk to Grand Central, which went viciously quick as she pounded the pavement like it had had her mother's name in its mouth. She barely noticed getting on the shuttle to Port Authority, getting on the A train, and it wasn't until she'd gotten inside the 12th precinct building and asked for Misty that she realized why she was here.

Fuck.

By the time Misty came out to get her, she was trying to get a coffee from the shitty vending machine they had there.

"God, girl, don't bother with that. We've got a real machine in the break room, come on."

Hearing Misty's voice was more of a relief than she could have predicted.

"Hey," she said, straightening out and sliding her dollar back into her bag.

"Hey," Misty replied with a half-smile. "What's goin' on?"

Claire shook her head.

"We're gonna need that coffee."

Telling the story and answering all Misty's questions about it definitely took longer than one cup of coffee lasted, but after the second it was just water, because Claire didn't want to start grinding her teeth and tapping her foot like she was tweaking. By the end of it, she'd raked her hand through her hair at least five times, and Misty had a tape full of information that would hopefully be of some use.

Leaning back in her chair, Misty huffed a breath that puffed out her cheeks, shaking her head.

"OK," she said. "All right. So while we don't have any real proof that this was an attack specifically targeted at you, I think it's safe to assume that the fact that you have a soulmate and an active soulbond had something to do with why this guy approached you. And considering who your soulmate is, it would be stupid not to at least consider the possibility that it was you, specifically, that this guy was after."

Claire pursed her lips in a frown.

"Look, it's not like you don't know by now that between your new professional specialty and who you spend most of your time with, you're gonna end up being targeted from time to time. It's basically the number one cliché in any story that the bad guys go through the bae to get to the dude who's too hard to kill to go after directly."

Claire took a drink of water, then sighed.

"Yeah, I know."

"Though to be honest, based on what the Widow was talking about last time we met –"

Claire's brow arched.

"You met with her again?"

Misty canted her head and gave her a _look_ , though hints of a grin curved at the corners of her mouth.

"It was for work."

"Colleen know how much you been workin' with this hot Russian redhead?"

Misty laughed.

"Could you get your mind out of the gutter and shut up? Not all of us need to fuck everybody we come across doing our jobs."

Claire's jaw dropped, and she burst out laughing.

"Oh, right, we should tell that one to Mr. Cage!"

Misty waved her hand, laughing. "That shit doesn't count, that was a one-off. I don't go boyfriend shopping at work."

"Oh, you shut the hell up," she laughed ruefully. "Technically, I didn't meet Matt at work, and I haven't fucked anybody since him."

"Now that's just sad," Misty told her. "You better get back on that horse. Though I guess at this point, you don't know which one."

Claire made a face at her, sort of the lovechild of a scowl and a grimace.

"Can we not right now? I'm just trying to get through this without some psycho using this soul bond to torture me or Barnes."

Misty held her hands up in a gesture of peace.

"I got you, I got you. I'm sorry," she said. "So, again, I don't know if it's specifically about you or Barnes or what, and maybe it's a coincidence that you had this – I don't know, enhanced human? Inhuman? Come after you while all this is going on, but you know how I feel about coincidences."

"'Generally straight bullshit,' I think is the quote," Claire replied.

"Good girl," Misty smiled. "So, you gonna stay with your mama?"

Claire shifted uncomfortably in the chair; she felt something tug at her from somewhere, some kind of reaction or response, but she couldn't parse it out. She frowned.

"I don't want her to be at risk," she said. "If this dude comes for me again, at her place, you know she's gonna try to take a bat to him or something."

Misty nodded.

"Yeah," she agreed. "You can come stay with me."

"Is Colleen gonna be cool with that?" Claire asked, arching a brow.

"Why not?" Misty replied. "You know you're her favorite student."

Claire half-smiled. "Well, she's my favorite teacher, so that's cool."

Misty laughed.

"Isn't she your only teacher?"

Claire grinned. "Listen, even if she weren't... but I don't want to be all up in you guys' space."

Misty waved her hand dismissively.

"Please. I think your life is a little more important than getting some booty. Besides," Misty grinned, "we can always go to Colleen's place."

Claire laughed, shaking her head. "Barnes… he made it sound like I could probably stay there. In the tower."

Misty's brows rose; she looked impressed.

"Well damn, girl, why the hell would you wanna be on my couch when you could get some five-star luxe shit like that?"

Claire made a face. "Eugh, it's so… Jesus, Misty it's just so _much_ ," she said. "It's so… showy and huge, and it's like a maze, and it's bourgie as fuck, and in Turtle Bay, and…"

Misty's face reflected little sympathy.

"I'm waiting for the part where I start feelin' bad for you."

Claire rolled her eyes.

"On top of all that, it's awkward. And… Barnes and I aren't exactly on the best terms right now."

This time, Misty arched a brow.

"Oh yeah? What happened?"

"It's a long story," she sighed, then paused. "Actually, it's really not. He's pissed because I wanna talk about how to deal with the fact that we're starting to feel each other's feelings."

"Is that all?" Misty asked, a smirk curling her lips. "Shouldn't be too tough for somebody who was brainwashed for seventy years, right? He's probably got tons of emotional clarity and intelligence, right?"

Claire gave her a withering look.

"Are you just always gonna take his side for the rest of my life, or do you just enjoy irking the shit out of me that much?"

Misty grinned. "Girl, you know I'm always on your side. And even though it is fun to irk the shit out of you from time to time, in this situation, I think maybe you gotta realize what you're workin' with here and manage those expectations."

Claire shook her head.

"No. No – I get that there's issues there, and that it's not easy for him, but I'm right there too, and we both have to deal with it. He doesn't get to be a dick with impunity because of the shit he's been through."

"Oh, I know that's right, girl," Misty nodded, taking a sip of her own drink, which was a second coffee. "Fuck that. But you know, you might have to teach him a little bit. Or guide him, or something. Sounds like he's been real outta the loop for a while in terms of dealing with relationships and emotions."

Claire pursed her lips.

"Not as long as you would think," she muttered.

Misty's eyebrows went up again.

"Oh yeah? He got a girl?"

Claire shook her head. Misty's eyebrows rose a little further.

"He got a dude?" Claire nodded.

"Well I'll be damned," Misty said, sounding impressed. "I wouldn't have called that."

Thoughtful for a second, Misty gave her a sloe-eyed, sidelong look, a slow grin spreading across her face.

"Shit, is it the Captain?"

"That's none of your business," Claire replied, almost primly. Misty laughed.

"Fuck me, it so is! Holy shit, that's a relationship that'll launch a billion spank banks!"

Claire tried to scowl again, but a laugh was bubbling up in her throat.

"Fuck," she sighed. "It really is, though. And it's kind of the least complicated thing about all this, I think."

"Really?" Misty asked, looking skeptical.

"No, really," Claire confirmed. "The Captain is genuinely the nicest guy I've ever met, and just wants Barnes to be happy. No shade, no tea."

"Well, damn," Misty said, then shook her head. "OK, so, does that mean that you can stay at the tower? Because I gotta say, baby, I feel a whole lot better about the security level there than at my place or yours."

Claire shook her head.

"I… it's complicated. I don't think it's a good idea."

Misty nodded.

"OK, ma, come to my place, then. You're welcome as long as you want, always."

Claire huffed a grateful sigh.

"Thanks, ma."

"Of course," Misty said. "In the meantime, you know you're gonna have to go back to that tower at some point, since whoever's doing the science over there's probably gonna wanna run some tests on you or some shit to figure out how this is happening and who did it."

Claire sighed and slumped back in her chair.

"So you're saying I _can't_ wait 'til tomorrow for all that?"

Misty arched a brow.

"Right," Claire sighed, raking a hand through her hair. "Can we at least go after happy hour?"

Misty laughed, shaking her head.

"C'mon, dummy," she said, offering Claire a hand.

After looking at it mutinously for a minute, Claire took it with a grunt.

* * *

 **Notes:** So I'm still wrestling with some strong feelings, and the next chapter isn't written yet, though I have some ideas about it. It seems likely that it will be Misty and/or Claire back at the Avengers Tower for running tests/talking more about plot. But there might be other things. I don't know LOL. thanks for your patience while I go through the thing. It's a thing to go through. 3

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	20. tonight your ghost will ask my ghost

**Chapter 20: tonight your ghost will ask my ghost**

 **Summary:** In which Claire wakes up. .

 **Notes:** Title from "Calculation Theme" by Metric.

Uh, these last few chapters have been really long! Or at least long compared to how I started. Generally I'm thinking about a thousand words per chapter, but obviously, this is not always how it goes down.

I think sometimes they'll be shorter in the future. We'll see? Idek. :D

* * *

Claire woke up swinging.

There was a hand over her mouth and pinned by the sheets and it was dark as fuck but she saw the glint of eyes above her and her cortisol levels spiked so hard she thought she was going to stroke out even though that wasn't a thing at all and her very first instinct was punch as hard as she could right in what she hoped was a kidney and then her hand was caught.

The way Claire ended up in Misty's bed was this:

Misty had gotten a call about a break in a case that she'd been waiting weeks for. There was a brief argument about whether or not Claire would just go on her own to Avengers-nee-Stark Tower that Claire won strictly because of the time sensitivity of Misty's lead. So Misty gave her the spare key to the apartment and promised to drag Claire's ass to the tower the next day.

Claire hadn't had any big plans in terms of sleeping; she had work to do, anyway, and they always needed more hands at the clinic. So she'd gone there and put in about thirteen hours before stumbling back to Misty's. When she'd gotten there, there was a note on the fridge:

 _Hey Claire,_

 _Sorry I couldn't be there when you got in, but I had a thing tonight I couldn't get out of. Misty told me you were crashing, though, so I made the bed up for you, and there's some takeout in the fridge. Also wine. Text us if you need anything; we'll see you tomorrow._

 _Take care,_

 _Colleen_

With a wry smile, Claire texted both Misty and Colleen her thanks, letting them know she was there and safe, then ate some takeout, drank some wine, and went to bed.

And woke up to a hand covering her mouth.

"It's me," he said, his voice low, calm, completely even. The hilarious part was that it didn't even take a split second for her to recognize his voice, for her to know exactly who he was, and for her shrieking adrenal response to chill the fuck out.

For fuck's fucking sake.

This did not, however, prevent her from wresting her hand free from his, then pushing away the one over her mouth.

"Are you out of your _got_ damn mind?!" she hissed at him.

It would have been louder, but she was sleep hoarse. As it was, she was shoving at him.

He watched her as he shifted away, out of her reach; he'd been sitting next to her on the bed, leaning over her, and now he just… wasn't. Later, Claire would probably describe it as kind of a superhero/assassin maneuver as much to clown him as anything else. At the moment, though, she threw off the bedclothes she'd been under, swinging into a sitting position as she glared at him.

"That's kind of a loaded question," he replied.

Incredulity arched a brow and squinted one eye.

"Was that a _joke_?" she asked, her voice rising. "You think it's _funny_ to break into my friend's apartment and scare the ever-living shit out of me?"

He canted his head to one side.

"No," he replied evenly, "I don't think it's funny to break in to your friend's apartment. Though I guess that was a joke."

Claire shook her head as though to clear it, her fists curling in the sheets on the sofa.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Barnes?"

He was quiet for a second. He wet his lips. Then he said, a little more quietly,

"I felt you."

The disorientation was the most terrifying thing about it. Like a dream within a dream – or a nightmare within a nightmare – but she couldn't wake up.

Images – visual after visual, each more horrifying than the last, memories shattering, scattering, she couldn't catch them, couldn't make sense of them, of any of it, couldn't breathe then –

 _Pain._

The pain, the pain, fucking Christ, the pain was so much she was screaming, she could feel herself screaming, she couldn't stand it, she couldn't, every muscle in her body electrified by the assault, by the machine, she couldn't move, she couldn't breathe, she had to breathe she had to – had to –

Images, more images, but then something – relief, comfort, brief, hard to recognize, she was shaking, trembling, her heart was pounding, pulse frantic, frenetic, breath ragged –

Then again. The pain, the images, never a rhythm, every now and then relief, but as if only to remind her of what relief was like so that the pain, physical and mental, never got old, never lost its edge – she never got used to it.

And then she woke up.

She watched him, realizing her nails were digging into her palms through Misty's sheets, and forced herself to uncurl them.

"You... felt me?" she asked, pieces of the nightmare starting to float back into her consciousness.

He wet his lips again, nodding.

"Yeah," he said. "I was – I have dreams sometimes. But it was different this time."

He took a breath and stood, pulling a hand through his hair. "You were there. With me. Right?"

He looked at her then, and she looked up at him, nodding.

"You have dreams like that? A lot?"

He nodded. She took a breath, standing up herself, slowly.

"Jesus Christ – are they nightmares or memories?"

"Memories, mostly." His tone was even, and so was his gaze; he was watching her, she realized, gauging her reaction.

She took another shuddering breath.

"Jesus – Jesus," she breathed, then sat back down. After a second, he moved to sit next to her, leaving a safe amount of distance between them.

She reached across it for his hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, almost too softly to hear.

Almost.

For a long time, they sat there, her fingers curled around his, in silence.

It was here and now, his hand in hers, drained and wrung out by that dream, that Claire started to pick up on his emotions discretely. There was concern, relief, guilt – they were distinctly _not hers_ , but she felt them. She looked at him, canting her head to one side, and he looked back at her, his expression even.

Tentatively, she squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back.

**  
He didn't know how to respond, exactly. He wasn't completely sure what she was apologizing for – if it was pity or empathy or for the fight they'd had earlier. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, since things seemed close enough to OK for now.

She was safe; she was breathing, she wasn't hurt or captured or dead. Neither was Steve, neither was he. That was what was most important.

The kind of guilt he found himself wrestling with over the dreams was different than what he was used to – different than memories of being – him, of the things he'd done. The people he'd hurt.

This was something else, something – he knew he couldn't comfort the people he'd hurt before. Couldn't make up for or fix the things he'd done. But Claire – she was hurting now, she was afraid, she was shaken, and though he couldn't clearly tell the cause of each feeling, he was getting better at identifying them.

It was after a little while that he asked, more because he was having trouble untangling what her emotions meant and where they were directed than because he wanted to talk much,

"Are you OK?"

She looked at him again, then, her eyes soulful and dark and very, very sad – the depth of the sadness struck him, made something in his chest ache, and he was totally unprepared for it.

"Me?" she gave a watery laugh. "Are _you_ OK?"

He watched her thoughtfully, his lips curving very slightly upward before he answered.

"By whose standards?"

Another watery laugh; she put her head on his shoulder and threaded her fingers through his. He guessed that was good enough, and he was glad. He wasn't convinced she wanted a longer answer to that question; he wasn't even convinced he did.

Besides, there were other logistics to worry about.

"Claire, I think you should come back to the tower," he said, trying not to sit too stiffly. She started to stroke his thumb with her own, and that made it worse, but also somehow better. "Romanov and Vision have uncovered some things, and… I mean, I was able to get in here. Someone else probably could, too."

He felt her sigh before it happened, the shift in her weight against him, the intake of breath.

"For how long?" she asked quietly.

"Until we get this sorted out," he replied.

"They really need me at the clinic," she said, her head still on his shoulder. He looked down at their linked hands, silent for a long time.

"The problem is," he said finally, "that if somebody's coming for you, they might not be worried about collateral damage or civilian casualties. I mean, just the fact that they're coming for you kind of says that. So if you're at the clinic, you're gonna be endangering your patients as well as yourself."

"Barnes," she said – he felt another sigh – "I seriously cannot literally be a damsel locked in a tower until you and Captain America save me from the bad guys. That's not my life."

He huffed a sigh of his own; she squeezed his hand, and he wondered if she felt his frustration.

Because he felt her determination.

"There's gotta be a way to do this. The tower isn't _that_ far from the clinic. I can make sure only to go at rush hour –"

"Not a good plan," he countered, already shaking his head. "Stark'll most likely be happy to send you in a car and send one to pick you up."

Now she lifted her head to give him a look. "A _car_? I don't even take _cabs_."

The corner of his lips curved slightly.

"You gotta give me somethin', here, Claire."

She made a face and put her head back on his shoulder.

"I'll think about it."

But he felt something ease, both in her, and between them.

Tentatively, he squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back.

* * *

Notes: I actually haven't read anything with Colleen Wing in it (I know, bad fangirl), so I'm just extrapolating what I think her personality might be like based on what I know of her from reading various fan wikis/articles about her. I could be totally wrong, but HEY OH WELL IT'S ONLY FANFIC SRY

As always, come see me on tumblr at something-pithy!


	21. as long as your army keeps perfectly

**Chapter 21: as long as your army keeps perfectly still**

 **Summary:** In which relationships are negotiated and not; in which characters have thoughts and feels.

 **Notes:** Title from "Beauty Queen/Horses" by Tori Amos.

So I was kind of discontent with this one; then I put it through some switching around and revision, and now I feel better about it and might have some vague direction at this point and that might actually lead to an endgame. Whuuut? Though that's probably a ways off. :D

* * *

Claire was typing messages into her phone.

 _Hey_

only to backspace it all out, erasing the message.

She tried again.

 _How's it going?_

She erased it again.

She must have done this at least thirty, forty times since she'd last spoken to Luke; it had been a while. Too long, really, for his patience to have lasted, if she was being honest with herself.

And she usually was.

To be fair, things had only gotten more and more complicated, and it wasn't clear what she should say.

The city had settled down; there hadn't been any more "incidents," small- or large-scale, and the makeshift emergency clinic had closed – though it had led to Claire getting hired at St. Luke's, which was hilarious. St. Luke's was underfunded and understaffed, but that was nothing new, and it kept her busy. It was good to have things to do and a place to go, because the stress and fear and concern about what would come next were front and center in her mind. She'd sent Luke texts at first to check on him, see how he was doing – and he'd responded, but there was a reserve there that she couldn't deny.

It was fair. And she couldn't in good conscience ease his fears, because she had no idea what the fuck was going on with Bucky, with this soulmark, with any of it.

He didn't know about what had happened in the subway, or that she was staying in Turtle Bay – or at least, she hadn't told him about it. Knowing the neighborhood, he'd found out, which was why he'd stopped texting. And now she didn't know how to reach out again – or even and she should.

Despite the bravado and determination she'd had just a couple of weeks ago in terms of Luke, everything seemed amorphous and fucked now by comparison.

She wasn't in love with Bucky Barnes, but she wasn't in a place to deny the space he was taking up in her life now – this fucking soulmark.

Luke still made more sense. Luke was grown, was well-adjusted, was open, was affectionate, was endearingly corny – but this soulbond ate up so much of her time and attention and energy that there wasn't room for anything else right now.

It would change. She knew it would change. But right now, it was what it was.

These were the thoughts she had as she did triage, as she set bones and stitched wounds and transfused blood. These were the thoughts she had as she ran through the ER, as she found veins, as she staunched bleeding. And with any luck, if she kept working and working and working, soon she wouldn't have any thoughts at all.

Bucky trained.

He didn't go with Claire in the car to take her to work, mostly because she insisted.

He didn't like it.

She wouldn't even let him stay with her after they woke up in the middle of the night. After standing by her window for a little while, she sent him back to his room. He talked to Steve about moving her room next to his, and Steve said they probably should talk to her and Pepper about it.

In the meantime, there wasn't much else to do but train.

The nightmares were kind of better, and he wondered if that was because of Claire. If because she was feeling them, too, they were happening less. If her knowing about them lightened the burden somehow.

He still preferred not to think about it – about them. About code words. About what he'd done.

But he found his fingers trailing occasionally over his hip, and his thoughts turning over what it meant that he'd been bonded to someone like Claire – someone who seemed, compared to him, at least, kind of uncomplicated. Not necessarily as uncomplicated as Steve, but also – not a soldier. A civvie whose whole life was about healing people.

But she was mean.

Well, maybe not mean, but not sweet – she was prickly and matter-of-fact and seemed not to care at all if people found her charming, even though she was that, too. But there were no airs, and no coyness, no guile – just Claire. Honest, real, straightforward, kind of fearless.

He guessed as different as she was from Steve, there was a lot in common there, too.

"So you like her," Steve said. He was watching him.

"What?" Bucky said, coming back to himself, to the room. He'd known Steve was there, but it hadn't stopped his internal monologue.

"Claire," he said. "You like her."

Bucky started wrapping his hands. "So do you," he pointed out.

Steve gave a half-smile.

"Yeah, I do," he admitted easily. "She reminds me of Peggy, a little."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, still wrapping his hands.

Steve's smile grew a bit.

"You telling me you don't see it? Tough, pretty, dedicated to a job she's great at, doesn't take any guff, but still has a heart of gold?"

Bucky hummed as he finished wrapping one hand.

"That mean you're gonna make a move on my soulmate?" he asked as he started wrapping the other.

Steve grinned, then started wrapping his own hands.

"Maybe," he said. "I do seem to have a type. Though it seems like she might have her hands full."

Bucky's eyes narrowed slightly.

"What, with me?"

"Well, there's you, her job, her moving in here, plus doesn't she have a boyfriend, too?"

Bucky frowned slightly, testing the wraps by punching his palms.

"I don't think he's a boyfriend. Not a real one."

"Oh yeah?" Steve said, arching a brow as he wrapped one hand.

"She's never with him," he said. Both Steve's brows rose.

"Bucky… you know she's not a target or a mission, right?"

That earned Steve an impressive scowl.

"I'm just saying… most girls don't really like being spied on," he said, putting his hands up in a gesture of peace.

"I'm not spying," he said. "It's just math. She works twelve or more hours a day, then either goes to see Misty or comes here. Not much time for dates."

Steve nodded.

"Fair," he said, starting to wrap the other hand. "And you're feeling a little relief about that?"

Bucky scowled again.

"It's none of my business," he said, moving toward a speed bag.

"No, it's not," Steve said as he continued wrapping. "But you're allowed to have feelings about it. I think it's probably normal to be a little jealous about your soulmate."

"Not when you already have somebody," he said, hitting the bag rhythmically, so fast his hands weren't quite visible.

"I don't think that's how it works," Steve said with a half-smile as he finished wrapping up his hand. "Wanna spar?"

Bucky looked at him for a long moment.

"Yeah," he said finally; then they moved to the fighting mat.

She woke in the middle of the night, breathless again.

This time it was the guy in the subway – grinning wickedly, reaching for her thigh, pressing his thumb into her, through her scrubs into her skin where she felt Bucky's script flare up. Orange light came from it, and she couldn't see the guy anymore – nothing except his smile, illuminated in orange, then a rainbow of light, then white, then nothing.

The grin stayed with her behind her eyes, like the Cheshire cat only more sinister, and she put her hand over her soulmark, her heart pounding, and sat bolt upright, disoriented, not knowing where she was or how she got there.

Then she remembered; looked out the window and saw the view.

She didn't belong here, but there was nowhere else for her to go.

…

When Bucky got there, probably five minutes later, she was standing by the window in the dark, the blanket draped around her as she looked out the window. He knocked just once, and she mumbled for him to come in, and he did – burst in, really, no shirt, just sweat pants, but she didn't turn to look at him. She knew who it was.

It wasn't a soul bond thing, she didn't think – just common sense.

"Claire," he said. She could feel him watching her.

"I'm fine," she said quietly; fatigue saturated her voice. "You, too?"

"Only once you woke up," he said, moving further into the room, closing the door. "What was it?"

"Just the guy again," she sighed, still looking out the window, pulling the blanket closer around her. "His fucking smile. Light. Colors. I don't know. He felt closer now. It feels like… I don't know, a lot more like he's here. Like he was here."

Bucky came closer, moved next to her at the window. He didn't touch her, but his proximity was almost the same difference. Claire half-smiled at him in the window's reflection.

"Because we're closer to each other now?" he asked.

"Seems like it, right?" she said, looking past their reflections at the view. "You think we're making it easier for him, being in the same place, having co-nightmares?"

Bucky shrugged. "I mean, not always. I didn't see your dream tonight."

"Yeah, but you felt it when I woke up," she murmured, adjusting the blanket.

"Mighta felt it anyway," he pointed out. After a moment, he said, "Dr. Cho's probably gonna wanna run some tests. And Bruce."

Claire sighed, nodding.

"Yeah," she said. "I guess that makes sense."

The smile was real; the means to channel the soul energy was already within reach, and manipulating it hadn't proven as challenging as he'd thought.

The issue was until he had the gem, there was the grating possibility of being thwarted.

But he was close.

Ms. Temple wasn't as easily accessible now as she had been, but it didn't matter just now; there were other matters to be managed before that would come into play by then, and so long as just a few pieces remained undisturbed, all would be well. Better than well, really.

He smiled again.

* * *

Notes: Next up - I'm not sure! There's an arc I'm pursuing, but I'm not sure how long it's going to take to realistically get to, so we'll see. :D

As always, come see me on my tumblr, something-pithy! I have other things there. :D


	22. putting out fire with gasoline

**Chapter 22: putting out fire with gasoline**

* * *

 **Summary:** In which Claire reasserts her autonomy, Bucky doesn't like the possible repercussions of that; hilarity ensues.

 **Notes:** Chapter title from "Cat People" by David Bowie.

Welp, it's officially been a year (and a few days) since I last updated.

Crazy times!

It took me a long time to get back to this fic because I was losing my way with it, and the epic depression post-election last year (no seriously it was like two months) combined with my typically pretty demanding schedule basically demolished my train of thought with it. And then I took on more responsibilities at work, and then this semester I've been taking my last two grad courses and I hadn't even looked at this fic in a hundred years, it feels like.

But I decided earlier this week that I needed to make a decision; I didn't want to leave it unfinished or go on hiatus or whatever, but it was really bothering me that it was sitting here incomplete, just hanging, unaddressed, unfinished. So I either needed to admit defeat and declare it abandoned, or figure this thing out. So I reread it, and got re-inspired.

This time, I have a story map. I have an end in sight. There is now a finite number of total chapters (37, give or take a chapter, probably). I'm pretty clear about what's happening, and I even have the next chapter after this one written already. My new commitment is writing for ten minutes a day, whether it's shit or the shit, and after brief revisions, it's going up.

So if you've made it this far, thank you for reading - both this long explanation, and this story. I feel good about what's going on so far, and I feel pretty positive about what I've got planned for the rest of it.

In terms of this actual chapter - there's been a little bit of a time lapse (not as long as the one I actually took, lol) of about three weeks, just as a means of letting me reset and get a fresher start. I hope you enjoy! 3

* * *

There'd been a lull.

They'd found a rhythm together, Barnes and Claire. They'd managed a schedule, of a kind, one that had never really been officially established. The connection clued them in to each other's moods, if not their exact whereabouts, but they were learning.

She was learning.

There was a blankness to when he was training that was different than the blankness when he was really fighting. Training made him calm, focused – it was almost meditative, because there was no thought, only movement. Fighting was…

Mechanical wasn't the right word, because machines weren't brutal. But if humans were the most elegant machines, then maybe it was the right word. There was thought when he was fighting, because on top of muscle memory there was this sense of one foot in front of the other, as best she could figure it. She didn't know exactly what was going through his head but she felt the sense of purpose that shifted slightly from second to second without ever actually changing in the bigger picture.

It was weird.

Steve was so genuinely nice that she almost felt guilty about being Barnes' soulmate – except that Steve was so good as a human being that he didn't even really let that happen for long. He talked to her when Barnes wouldn't, asked about her day; they cooked together sometimes, when she was around.

When she said she was leaving the tower, he was one hundred percent opposed.

Misty was, too, and so was Luke. Luke, though, was headed back to Seagate, and when that happened, she'd locked herself up in that millionth-floor apartment, and there were only letters and could-have-beens left there. It didn't even make sense that it hurt so much, but she'd cried with her head in Misty's lap, Colleen stroking her hip. It wasn't loud, but it was ugly, her face buried in Misty's academy sweats, her fingers clenched into the fabric of one of Luke's shot-up hoodies.

That was when she realized that the tower, this bond, the Avengers, were going to chew up the rest of her life and spit it out if she didn't do something. Or at least that was what it felt like, and when Claire felt like something needed doing, she had to act.

Misty said to slow her roll; Colleen agreed. Both of them told her to at least come and stay with them, but Claire missed her own place, her own space, her own life. Her old life.

She was finishing up packing when his shadow fell over her doorway.

"Steve said you're leaving," he said, voice even.

"Steve coulda waited until I was actually gone," she said, casting a look at him as she tossed her hairbrush into her bag.

"You were gonna go without even saying goodbye?" he asked; there wasn't anything wounded in his voice, but there didn't need to be, she guessed, because there was an ache in her chest. She couldn't tell if it was hers or his though.

She pulled a hand through her hair, exhaling on a puff of breath that was too short for all the emotions she tried to pack into it.

"Yeah… no… I don't know," she said as she folded a t-shirt. "I didn't want you to try to stop me."

"Even though this guy… this… whatever this is is still out there."

"It's been three weeks, Barnes. The terrorists are winning," she said, putting the shirt in her bag.

"This guy isn't a terrorist, Claire," he said, folding his arms over his chest, watching her. "This guy wants something from us. From you."

"Well, he's not doing a great job of getting it," she said, "and Misty can't water my plants forever."

"You don't have any plants."

"Well, maybe I would if I was ever home to water them," she said a little testily.

"Claire…"

"What?" she said, a little too sharply.

His jaw was tight. His voice was still even, though, when he spoke.

"Did you ever think that maybe the reason he hasn't been able to get whatever it is that he wants is because you've been here? Protected?"

"Yeah, the thought had crossed my mind," she said. "The thought had also crossed my mind that I'd kind of rather him come at me than be in limbo for the rest of my life."

Barnes scowled then. It was pretty subtle, actually. That tight jaw, his brow furrowing slightly – that was it. But Claire was starting to learn his tells. She felt pretty sure it was the connection, but she'd take what she could get.

"So you're trying to draw him out?" he asked.

"Trying is a strong word, but it seems like a good a way as any to neutralize the threat. Better than sitting here on my ass waiting for something to happen, anyway."

"We've been working on it," he said. That one sounded like he'd said it through his teeth.

"Yeah, well, seems like he's been working on avoiding you guys, so…"

"We're not using you as bait, Claire," he said, the tension in his voice detectable to most humans now.

"Well, that's great, because I'm not bait," she said. "What I am, though, is a grown-ass woman with something kind of like a life out there in the real world, and I can't take being in this tower anymore, just being black car-ed to and from work every day."

"The minute you go back to your place, he's gonna find you, Claire!" Now he was getting loud. It actually made Claire feel better – this, she knew how to deal with. No murderbot, no soldier – this was a pissed off machista trying to tell her how shit was gonna be. Here, Claire had been before.

"Yeah, and if he does, I'll deal with it my damn self if I have to, but I am not living in this fucking robotower waiting for the other shoe to drop!"

She was getting loud, too.

"Will you fucking think for a goddamn minute, Claire?"

Her eyebrows rose up.

"Excuse me?" she said. "About all I do when I'm not working is think! Think about this fuckhead trying to play games with our bond; think about this bond, that's set my whole fucking life in disarray; think about you, out there in the world, how I've had to figure out the difference between you going dead inside and you being actually dead, and then thinking about how I know exactly how worried to be by how long you go blank for. Meanwhile, I'm at work, trying to do shit but not being able to, or I'm here, wanting to do shit but not being able to!"

He'd gone pale somewhere around "dead inside" and his jaw was definitely going to crack for how tightly his teeth were clenched. But he didn't say anything. He turned on his heel, fists clenched, and left the room.

She felt him, then – just for a few seconds, fury and frustration and other things, too but she couldn't pick them out because it was a maelstrom, all chaos and red and black and everything else, until she could tell he was hitting something because it swiftly started to recede, back behind that wall, and she found herself sitting on the bed with her head in her hands, a t-shirt crumpled where it'd fallen to the floor.

"Fuck!" she muttered, picking a balled-up pair of socks out of her bag and throwing it on the floor with an unsatisfying and silent bounce.

* * *

 **Notes:** So that happened! Personally, I feel like Bucky and Claire's "tower/no tower" schtick is getting old . But they're going to have other things to worry about soon enough. Yas! Thanks for reading 3

As always, come see me on my tumblr, .com! I have other things there. :D


	23. blanket of cinders

**Chapter 23: blanket of cinders**

* * *

Summary: In which Claire has an unexpected visitor.

Notes: Chapter title from "Cities in Dust" by Siouxsie and the Banshees.

* * *

It wasn't personal, of course.

He could readily admit he'd had better plans. The issue was there was a power vacuum, of a kind, and those had always been difficult for him to ignore. And of course, he was a pragmatist – there was always a way to manage such a situation into one that would benefit him. But this time, he wasn't only thinking about the long game, or the bigger picture – he was thinking about the greater good.

But of course, it was the idiocy of others that always got in the way – and choosing a soulbonded pair that included an Avenger and someone "Defender"-adjacent was absolutely sheer idiocy, by any measure. This development had created a necessity for adjustment. He knew that the constant and extreme nature of the stress and danger that these two faced – in separate contexts, and together – was accelerating their bond in a way that had made it much easier to observe, then manipulate. But even so, he could hardly understand why so few people understood the nature of the long game.

Granted, the people of this world had a far shorter time span in which to play, but even still. Idiocy.

It had been both frustrating and a bit of a relief when the woman had taken up temporary residence in the tower, as it gave him time to consider a greater multitude of possibilities. By the time she'd decided to leave (truly, he couldn't blame her; the thought of living in that tower with a number of its residents sounded like enough for him to want to grind his own teeth into dust), he felt confident about his prospects.

And so, well-dressed, properly glamored, and with the most winning smile, he arrived at the apartment in Harlem (truly, he did not understand how the people of these cities managed to endure this level of squalor), and rang the doorbell.

He was greeted through a chain lock, a slender hand seeming to aim some manner of cylinder at his face. Some weaponized artifact, perhaps? He arched a brow at both.

"Good day – Claire, isn't it?" he asked pleasantly, turning his gaze to the narrow strip of her face the opening in the door revealed, as though her defensive behavior was merely de rigueur.

"I'd like to introduce myself. I am Loki Laufeyson, and I must speak with you."

As a gambit, it was a risk – normally he would almost certainly take the time to infiltrate her life in a less gauche way, earning her trust before revealing himself. However, his time was limited.  
Before he could reconsider his life choices, however, the door slammed in his face, and he heard her on the other side.

"You have thirty seconds to get the hell out of here before I call the Avengers, fucker," she called, her voice muffled through the door.

He sighed.

Of course, nothing could be simple.


	24. made you a prince with 1000 enemies

**Chapter 24: made you a prince with a thousand enemies**

Summary: In which the plot moves forward and Loki gonna Loki.

Notes: title from "Ghosts" by Ladytron

So, I'm about two weeks late, for which there's no excuse except that I went back on my promise to post even if it was shit - and then I was like "No, just post it, just post it, you'll never get good at these parts if you don't just post them and move forward!"

So I did. I'm going to refrain from laying out all the criticism I have for this chapter and present it without (more) comment. LOL 3

Thanks for your patience. The flow will be a little quicker soon. The next couple of chapters are going to be a challenge for me, so I appreciate your understanding while I wrassle with unfamiliar territory!

* * *

When Barnes and Steve arrived, Loki was on Claire's couch, legs crossed, looking quite relaxed. Claire looked less so – she was standing, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Bucky was already moving toward Loki without even a grunt of greeting to Claire, blade in his palm.

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa," Claire exclaimed, stepping between him and Loki, turning her back to the Asgardian.

"Claire," he growled the warning once, reaching out to move her bodily.

"Hey!" she said, stepping just out of his reach and putting her hands up. "It's fine, he's fine, I let him in –"

"Loki isn't necessarily the most trustworthy guy, Claire," Steve, who'd flanked her, by this point, close to getting between her and Loki. Loki looked utterly unfazed, polite curiosity and possibly a twinkle of amusement on his face.

"Guys!" she exclaimed, turning to look from Steve to Barnes. "I know, I know, but if he wanted to kill me or snatch me up or whatever, he probably could have done it before you got here, right?"  
Loki canted his head to one side, watching, still curious.

This made both men pause, though Bucky was still cutting a hard glare at Loki.  
"She has a point, you know," Loki said blithely. "Honestly, I'd think you'd give me more credit."  
"Credit?" Bucky breathed.  
"I know multisyllables are difficult," Loki said slowly. Bucky stepped forward. Claire did, too, moving closer to Bucky.  
"He knows who's messing with us. Who messed with us."  
Steve had taken the opportunity to shift closer to Loki; Claire kept an eye on him, but was less worried that Steve would do something stupid.  
"Of course he does," Bucky snarled.  
Loki rolled his eyes. "I understand that the scope of your imagination in terms of plotting is limited to that of a pawn –"

Claire put a hand on Bucky's chest, then turned a glare on Loki; Steve looked like he was trying to grind his teeth into dust. Loki held his hands up.  
"Look, I'm trying to do the right thing here," Loki said. Bucky and Steve snorted.  
"The fool is trying to use your bond to manipulate the Soul gem. Yes, that soul gem," Loki said at their expressions.  
"Where?" Bucky ground out.

Loki smiled, slow, charming, and victorious.  
"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

As always, come see me on my tumblr, .com!

I have other things there. :D


	25. what you touch you don't feel

**Chapter 25: what you touch you don't feel**

 **Summary:** in which there is a battle, an injury, making out, and some feels.

 **Notes:** title from "Destroy Everything You Touch" by Ladytron So I got a little behind for a minute there, and I expected the next few chapters to be kind of truncated and short, but then this happened. . I've decided I'm not going to disclaim or criticize anything I'm doing here - I'll let you read and decide how you feel about it. I appreciate you reading, and your comments. Feel free to give me (constructive!) feedback! Hearts!

* * *

Her hands were curled into his leather jacket; she was pulling him as close as he would let her, and despite being a super spy with super powers or enhanced or whatever the fuck, it felt like she'd gotten the drop on him, felt like she'd caught him by surprise, even though if she'd had the chance to actually think about it, it wouldn't make any sense.

But there was no time to think about it – there was crackling and fire and orange lightning – there was a globe of energy around them, her thigh and her blood and everything inside her was singing, screaming, but in pleasure, in power, in everything that was right, except her lips were pressed to his, his tongue slid across hers, both his arms were around her and his hands were on her –

hers slid up, over his armored throat, into his hair, long, blowing in this wind, like hers was, but it didn't matter; her curves were pressed against his tac gear and the only imperfect thing about this moment was that she couldn't feel his skin on hers, she couldn't get closer, she couldn't be inside him, or have him inside her, and it didn't matter that a battle was raging on around them, didn't matter that Steve was there or Loki or anygoddamnbody because she didn't even know it, didn't even feel it, didn't see or taste or touch or hear or smell anything but him, her senses were soaked only with him and he –

He slid his hands down to her thighs, picked her up, and as though she'd done it a thousand times, he locked her legs around his waist, ankles crossing behind him. He still moved quickly, almost too quick to see, with her pulled tight against him, and there wasn't even the thought of protecting her because there was literally nothing else but her. Something in him, he would think later, knew that there was an impenetrable field around them, that nothing could have breached, that they could have stripped down and fucked each other to pieces right there, and it would have been fine, safe as houses, except for the world bursting into flames around them.  
It was when they were pulled apart that things got fucked.

She gasped first – into his mouth, her legs tightening, then turning to jelly. She pulled back enough to look at him, her confusion mirrored in his eyes, and then it was clear because her arms went slack and he was holding her up. The field around them crackled and he was holding her as the bond twisted and hurt – he could tell, he could feel it, but his pain tolerance was significantly more than hers, and so he was able to set her down more gently than anyone would ever have thought and turn, dead-eyed, to stare at the source.

-  
 _earlier_

They were at St. Nicholas Park – Bucky and Steve. Loki, unsurprisingly, was doing some kind of Loki recon, though he'd said he'd meet with them soon enough.

Thor had actually vouched for Loki through some portal that he'd insisted was magical (and that Tony had proceeded to examine and measure and try to figure out a reasonable scientific explanation for), which was the only reason Bucky hadn't tried to stab him full of enough holes to drain spaghetti through – something about a distorted timeline that he was working on. He'd had a man with a smart moustache in a ridiculous cape with him, and the effort Claire was putting in not to say something about it was so clearly all over her face that Bucky might have cracked a smile under different circumstances.

Either way, he and Steve had agreed that they should go alone to the park, with the plan to call in backup if necessary.  
The consensus had been that he and Claire should not be in the vicinity of this guy at the same time. She'd head to work. They'd pick her up afterward. This was, after all, mostly a recon mission.

That had been the plan.

Until he'd gotten injured.

Claire had felt it – felt it as vividly as if it had happened to her. Agony in her leg, in her shoulder – her ribs. She'd doubled over, and Serafina, one of the other nurses on shift, had run up to her.

"You OK, mama?" she'd asked, sitting her down.

Claire was not OK. She was pale, drawn, her breathing shallow. Another jolt of pain tore through her.

"Yeah… I just… I think I have a migraine coming on," she lied weakly.

Looking at her watch, Sera sucked her teeth.

"There's only fifteen minutes left on shift – why don't you get home, I'll cover you until the shift change. Not like you can do much like this, you know?"

It was probably not a great sign that Claire didn't put up a fight, but she had one guess about what this feeling meant, and she knew she needed to get out of there.

"Yeah," she nodded, controlling her breathing. "Thanks, Sera. I owe you one."

"Nah," Sera said, half-smiling. "You covered me on Ricky's birthday, we're good."

Claire smiled faintly and said, "Yeah, well, you only turn five once, right?"

Sera grinned. "Go on home, mami. You gonna get there OK?"

Claire nodded, taking another breath before she got up. "Yeah, it's not far. I'll just get my stuff. Thanks again, Sera."

"Anytime, baby."

It was a quick thing to grab her go bag, and the park wasn't far at all from the hospital. She ran all the way there, despite the pain, despite her heart trying to tear out of her chest. When she saw Bucky on the ground, Steve hurling his shield at a monster glowing orange and smashing the earth around him, shadows and creatures crawling hungrily toward Bucky's shaking form – he was trying to get up.

He was trying to get up.

Idiot.

She ran to him full speed – dodging shadows and not sure even what they were. But as she got closer to Bucky, they recoiled. She skidded next to him on her knees, the grass softening her fall as she started digging into her go bag, But he reached up and touched her face, and it stopped everything.

Literally everything.

There was no movement around them. She could see everything – his bones (broken rib, hairline fracture in his forearm that was already healing), his blood (leaking out of a gash in his cheek, pumping through his veins almost too fast, soaking into his tack gear from something that had torn through his armor and into his chest.  
She put her hand over his heart, and it was the kind of moment they describe in shitty romance novels that Claire gave up when she was about sixteen, or that they show in TV or in movies, and he sat up like nothing was wrong, and she didn't try to stop him; she put her hand on his cheek and he leaned up and her lips parted and then there was really nothing but the taste of him; there was blood on his lip and the copper of it made her fingers curl in his jacket but then there was just him – something full and rich and a little sweet, and he was standing, then, and so was she, and his arms were around her and they were against a tree and -  
What made her go limp was the pain. His pain – she knew it, but she couldn't speak. When she pulled away from him, to breathe, to see if he was OK, it was back, and he put her down, and she wanted to tell him no, no, not this, not here, not now, he was charging a near-dead monster with its claws out.

It was a red haze of confusion – she didn't understand what was going on. She saw Steve, Bucky, fighting, and she looked down at herself, and there was no blood except on her shirt, but it wasn't hers, and she knew that like she knew her arm was her own. She was barely able to get to her feet – even hurt, Bucky fought with a kind of brutal grace – or graceful brutality – that should have been at odds, but somehow wasn't. His body was an instrument and a tool, both – and he used it with a precision that destroyed whatever was in front of him, and that monster was it.

When he was hit again, Claire ran toward him – but before she could reach him, he was hit again, again, again – again. His flesh arm was hanging wrongly at his side, his face – his face – his chest, his leg – there was blood everywhere, and she was screaming, running, even though everything hurt, everything was insane, everything was red and this fucking monster was trying, was trying –

The monster took a swipe at her and she could only stare at it, putting herself between it and Bucky –

And then its head was rolling off its shoulders, and Steve's shield was flying back to him.

Claire blinked, turned around, dropped to her knees.

No pulse. No pulse. No pulse.

Ironic that the thought was the tattoo of a heartbeat.

She put pressure on that wound in Bucky's chest.

Steve was next to her before she knew what was happening – without consciously realizing it, she'd started CPR, she was compressing his chest, and Steve was –

"Let me," he said. She only looked at him blankly for a fraction of a second. He was stronger. There was tac gear. The compressions would be better.

She leaned over, stroked his hair back from his face. At the right count, she moved in, breathed life into Bucky, and when their lips touched, she felt the spark, felt it, felt it work, felt it happen.

There was a pulse, she could feel the pulse, it was weak, like a ribbon blown against her fingers, but it was enough.

It was enough.

Steve looked at her, laced his fingers through hers. There were sirens, and Banner was running toward them, but they only looked at each other for a long moment as Bucky lay before them.

It was enough.

Notes: As always, come see me on my tumblr, .com! I have other things there. :D


	26. el precio de la verdadera libertad

**Chapter 26: el precio de la verdadera libertad**

 **Summary:** In which Claire's feels turn on her, and she and Steve have a moment.

 **Notes:** title from "un peso" by Kinky So, this may go more than 37 chapters? But not much longer. Things are happening!

* * *

Claire was terrified.

She was also pacing a hole in the floor of the infirmary, or she would be, if it hadn't been made of reinforced titanium or vibranium or whatever the fuck they made superhero lairs out of. She had a cuticle between her teeth, worrying it. Steve had gone to debrief with the rest of the team after she'd checked him out. They hadn't talked. Not really. Not besides her telling him where and how to move, telling him to give her his arm, his wrist, to let her shine a light in his eyes.

He was probably the best patient she'd ever hand.

Bucky was out. Still out. Alive. Breathing. But she couldn't feel him.

She couldn't feel him. That kind of absence, after having gotten used to the connection – even feeling stifled by it sometimes, strangled, even after resenting it and fighting it and hating it and hating him, now and then, even though he was no more the source of it than she was – was crippling, and she didn't know how to deal with it. She tried to picture it, to imagine it, to sense it, remember the way that it had felt, and it didn't matter, because she could remember it with perfect clarity, but that didn't by any stretch actually make it come back.

Hence the terror.

She didn't sit by his bedside, didn't hold his hand. Well, she'd tried, at first, hoping that touch would bring the bond back, or let her know he was OK, or communicate somehow with him. She'd talked to him, threatened him, cajoled him, but none of that had worked. Nothing.

There was just… nothing.

She was watching him, her thumbnail between her teeth now, eyes bloodshot, arm wrapped around her middle, when Steve showed up. Her eyes flickered to him as he entered the room.

"How's our patient doing?" he asked, his voice quiet, calm, even a little upbeat, maybe.

"How does it look like he's doing?" she asked, and immediately regretted the sharpness of her tone – even more so when he moved further into the room, closer to her than to Bucky.

"Kinda like he's having a better time than you right now," he said sincerely, though there was a little upward curve to his perfect lips.

"Yeah, well, it must be nice to get to take a nap at this point," she said, looking back at Bucky who did, now that Steve mentioned it, look almost serene, even with all those tubes hooked up to him and his face mashed up to hell. Still looking at Bucky, she said, much more quietly, "I thought you all were supposed to have super healing or whatever."

"We are," Steve said, his tone still calm, almost easy – but not really. It actually carried exactly the level of seriousness that made it feel like he respected her concern without making her feel more of it. "We do. But that – that was pretty serious."

"I –" she looked at Steve, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening dangerously as she dragged a hand through her hair, then motioned to Bucky. "I don't – I don't know what to expect. I don't know how to fix it. I – if he were a regular guy, he'd be dead now. So I'm glad – but I don't – I don't know when he's going to wake up, I don't know how fast he's healing, I don't know –"

Steve reached for her hand then, and she gave it to him, looking at him for a long moment. He just stood there, holding her hand, until she pulled him closer – or maybe pulled herself closer to him. Either way, it ended with her face in the crook of his neck, his arms around her, and a choked sob escaping her as he stroked her hair.

"It's – I know people always say it's OK," he murmured quietly, the depth of his voice resonating through her skin. "But I feel pretty safe saying he's been through worse, and made it through every time."

She shook her head; he was just wearing a t-shirt now, and her tears were soaking it.

"He – I don't know, I know. I know he'll – I know he'll be OK. But – but I can't – it's like he's not there."

She didn't think she could bring herself to say more than that.

Apparently she didn't need to, though. He kept stroking her hair. He was quiet. He was warm, and he gave great fucking hugs, so that was a thing. She pulled back just enough to look up at him; his expression was –

Jesus Christ.

It was empathetic, open, sad – sad for her, like he hurt for her. Not at all like was comforting his lover's soulmate, who'd just almost torn his clothes off right on the battlefield in a mindless display of she didn't even know what. She shook her head.

"Fuck, no wonder he loves you," she said with a watery laugh-sob.

He blinked, then, but didn't move away, or even let her go, really. He stroked her hair again.

"Pardon?" he asked instead.

"I mean, why don't you hate me?" she sniffled. "You had this perfect thing, and then I come in all soulbonded and… and I don't even know," she finished lamely.

He gave her a half-smile, looking at her for a long moment.

"I dunno," he said finally. "What's perfect, anyway? You seem like a real nice girl, Claire. I mean, you sure cuss a lot –" she scrunched her face at him, then, and he gave her a lopsided grin – "but aside from that, you're honest, you're hard-working, you've got a ton of moxie, but you really want to help people, and you care a lot about them. Can't see as there's much to hate about you."

She looked up at him, brow arched.

"Except for the fact that I'm your boyfriend's soulmate."

The smile he gave her was a little more melancholic than the last one, but no less sincere. "Should I want somebody dishonest and hateful for his soulmate, instead?"

"No, but…" she shook her head. It seemed a little absurd that they should be having this conversation while he held her, still stroking her hair occasionally. A lot absurd. Her arms were around his waist, and she discovered she'd been stroking the small of his back with her thumb.

"This is weird," she decided. And did not move away.

"Well, maybe," he offered, considering. Then, looking at her with the most direct, open, honest stare she could remember experiencing, he asked, "But in terms of perfect things… I don't think anything's really perfect. So if someone's gonna come into the situation – someone who's a part of him, and who he's a part of, seems like it coulda turned out worse."

He looked down at her. "It's not like we didn't know he had one, and that I wasn't it, you know? The words have always been there."

There was a pause, then, as she wet her lips and nodded. Then he asked,

"Do you hate me?"

This time, she blinked. Her thumb paused. Then she made a face at him.

"No," she said. But as his expression took on a 'That's settled,' sort of tint, she said, "But he's not mine."

Steve gave her a half-grin.

"Of course he is," he replied. "It's just that it doesn't make him any less mine, or me any less his. Mostly because he's his own, though I'm not sure he knows that a lot of the time."

She shook her head; her thumb was moving again, stroking through the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

"You're pretty good for him, aren't you?" she asked quietly.

"I hope so," he replied earnestly. Then, "I think you're gonna be, too."

Her fingers curled in his shirt. She wet her lips and pressed them together.

"I don't want to fuck things up for you guys. For either of you," she whispered. "You deserve to be happy. Both of you."

He looked at her for a long moment, lips curved in a way that made her toes curl a little bit inside her boots. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"I think we're all gonna be just fine, Claire."

* * *

 **Notes:** As always, come see me on my tumblr, something_pithy! I have other things there. :D


	27. i know i know it's serious

**Chapter 27: i know, i know, it's serious**

 **Summary:** In which Claire communicates and shifts gears, or into gear.

 **Notes:** Title from "Girlfriend in a Coma," by The Smiths. I know I haven't stuck to the schedule! I'm sorry. The fact is, I've had this chapter and the next written for like, two or three weeks, but the past few weeks + holidays have been seriously hectic both personally and professionally - not in a bad way, but in a "Jesus Christ I don't even know where I am" kind of way. In any case, here's the next chapter! I'd love to hear your feedback/thoughts/comments - they've been really helpful in terms of motivation and inspiration! As always, I appreciate you reading, and hope you enjoy. :D

* * *

Claire imagined that it'd probably irk Bucky that when he was totally unable to try to get her to stay at the tower, that's exactly what she did. She traded a few shifts to work with Dr. Cho, asking her basically every question she could think of about Bucky and Steve's enhanced physiology. Whereas before, Claire had sort of avoided the question of all this super-soldier science, having her hands full with the work she was already doing, now she was all in. She might not be able to fight this fucker with the Infinity Stone or whatever, but she could work on patching her guys up as best she could. With Steve's consent, Dr. Cho let Claire sit in on his follow-up from after the fight, and shared his chart with her, showing some of the injuries he'd sustained, and how rapidly he'd healed from them. Banner came by and she'd asked him about the science behind the Infinity Stones – while a lot of the space shit had gone over her head, some of the theory behind the affects of different stones on human (and near-human) biology did stick, and she took furious notes on everything she could.

Tony Stark, at one point, had walked by, grinning, saying that she hadn't even talked to Vision yet.

She made a note to talk to Vision.

At night, when everyone had left the lab and the infirmary and she'd checked on Bucky three times, she called Misty, who she knew deserved an update. She was greeted with a peal of laughter.

"Girl, how are you gonna think that your boy and his boy are gonna have a battle royale at St. Nicholas and I'm not gonna know about it? Did you hit your head out there, or did you think I hit mine?"

Claire rubbed her eyes and shook her head with a tired laugh.

"OK, all right – fair," Claire replied, pulling her hair into a ponytail.

"He OK, though?" Misty asked, sobering a bit.

Claire huffed a sigh. "He's healing," she said. "I think he's gonna be all right."

"But…?" Misty prompted.

"But… I can't feel the bond," she said quietly. There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Shit," Misty said softly, finally. "I'm sorry, baby. Maybe it's just 'cause he's knocked out, you know?"

"Yeah," Claire nodded, exhaling softly. "I mean, he's kind of in a coma, so it might just be that. I don't know. But I figure maybe if we can find this soul gem, we can…"

"Maybe you can fix it?" Misty supplied.

"Yeah?" Claire said.

Claire would always be grateful to Misty for not asking stupid questions about why Claire wanted to fix it, hadn't she been mad about it anyway, didn't she want to be free. Instead, Misty said,

"I'll put some feelers out there, get some people on it, and I'll let you know what turns up, aight? Now that this fool put himself on blast, it'll be easier to get some leads."

Claire exhaled again, not realizing she'd been holding her breath.

"Thank you so much, ma," she said.

"Shit, you can thank me with some congri when this is all over," Misty said. Claire laughed.

"You got it – you and Colleen, invited over for Cuban dinner."

"That's what I'm talking about," Misty said – Claire could hear her grin over the phone.

"You only love me for my pig skills," Claire accused. Misty laughed.

"Girl, don't sell yourself short. You got those platanitos on lock, too." Claire laughed, shaking her head.

"Thanks, mama. I really appreciate it," she said. She could hear Misty's smile again – softer this time.

"Any time, baby girl. You know that."

"I know. Be safe, OK?"

"You, too, girl! I'm not the one fighting monsters in the park."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah -"

Her gasp cut off any more banter that might have been exchanged.

"Claire?" Misty demanded. "You all right?"

She as already in a sprint, phone only still pressed to her ear because she hadn't thought to move it.

"I'm good," she said, exertion in her voice. "I gotta go. I'll talk to you soon."

"OK –"

But the reception was weakened as the elevator doors shut and she pressed the button for the floor where she'd find the infirmary.

"He's awake," she was the last thing she got out before the line went dead, and she watched the numbers as she rose.


	28. IMPORTANT UPDATE! WE'RE MOVING

Hello, lovely readers!

I just wanted to let you all know that moving forward, I won't be updating this fic here on FFN. The format is kind of difficult, I've had trouble getting chapters up in the past, and due to a number of circumstances, I unfortunately just can't mess with it anymore.

Future updates will be made solely on Ao3 here, and of course, you can always come say hi on my tumblr!

Thanks so much for reading, and I hope to see and hear from you soon!

3


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